"Did your
husband make you a scene about your coming?" That was Miss Stackpole's
first enquiry.
"No; I can't say he made a scene."
"He didn't object then?"
"Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you'd call a
scene."
"What was it then?"
"It was a very quiet conversation."
Henrietta for a moment regarded her guest. "It must have been
hellish," she then remarked. And Isabel didn't deny that it had been
hellish. But she confined herself to answering Henrietta's
questions, which was easy, as they were tolerably definite. For the
present she offered her no new information. "Well," said Miss
Stackpole at last, "I've only one criticism to make. I don't see why
you promised little Miss Osmond to go back."
"I'm not sure I myself see now," Isabel replied. "But I did then."
"If you've forgotten your reason perhaps you won't return."
Isabel waited a moment. "Perhaps I shall find another."
"You'll certainly never find a good one."
"In default of a better my having promised will do," Isabel
suggested.
"Yes; that's why I hate it."
"Don't speak of it now. I've a little time. Coming away was a
complication, but what will going back be?"
"You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a scene!" said
Henrietta with much intention.
Pages:
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993