personality always succeeded in making itself felt, and she became the centre of interest to men and women alike. Never self-conscious, never embarrassed, always quiet and rather ennuye, she fascinated by the very strength of her silence, which, it was abundantly clear, had nothing in common with stupidity. She had already declined three offers of marriage, before Marshall had appeared on her horizon. Curiously enough, these offers had all been made by men very much older than herself.
She had a queer habit, while sitting, of constantly, though quite unconsciously, attending her person. She would keep putting her hand to her hair, adjusting her skirt, feeling her waist-band, altering the position of a necklace or bracelet, etc. It was not vanity, but a sort of nervous irritability, which prevented her from continuing still. Her aunt frequently cautioned her against the fault, which was one of those that grow by indulgence; Isbel would deny the offence, and five minutes later would begin to repeat it. The strange thing was that a good many persons of the other sex liked to watch her toying with her garments in this way. She was perfectly well aware of the fact, and it rather disgusted her.
Mrs. Moor, the third member of the party, had just entered her sixtieth year. She was — as already mentioned — a widow. Her husband, a stockbroker in a small way, had during the rubber boom amassed a sudden fortune, which fell to her intact upon his death in 1911. By shrewd speculation she had increased it considerably since, and could now be regarded as a wealthy woman. Isbel’s father, who had died nearly at the same time, was her younger brother. He was a widower, with only one other child, a son — the one who had recently died in New York. Isbel, who at that time was sixteen became Ann Moor’s ward, under the will. She was at once removed from school — rather against her desire — and the two women commenced the more or less vagrant existence together, which they had continued ever since, drifting from hotel to hotel in all quarters of the globe. It was a free life, and Isbel came to grow extremely fond of it. In any case, her own money was not sufficient to support her, so that in a manner she was dependent upon her aunt’s whims. It only remains to add that she tyrannised over the older woman in all her personal relations, and that the latter not only permitted this, but even seemed to expect it as a natural thing.
Mrs. Moor was short, erect, and dignified, with a somewhat stiff carriage. Her face, which resembled yellow marble, bore a consistently stern and dauntless expression, rarely relaxing into a smile. She was in complete possession of all her faculties, and her health, generally speaking, was good. The art of dressing she did not understand; Isbel selected her garments for her, while her maid told her when and how to put them on. She was, in fact, one of those eccentric women who ought to have been born men. Her tastes were masculine, her knowledge chiefly related to masculine topics. She knew, for instance, how to invest her money to the best advantage, how to buy and sell land, and how to plan a serviceable house; but what she did not know was how to flatter men, how to talk gracefully about nothing, how to interest herself in the minute details of another woman’s household, or how to identify herself in thought with the members of the upper circles of society. She bowed to no authority, and took pride in speaking her mind in whatever company she might find herself. The natural consequence was that, while her friends esteemed her highly for her genuine qualities, they were more than a little frightened of her, and never really regarded her as one of themselves. It sometimes dawned on her that she was lonely. On such occasions she sought solace in music. She loved everything classical, Beethoven in particular she venerated, but the history of music came to an end, for her, with Brahms. Weeks would pass without her once opening the piano, and then a sudden, almost passionate yearning would seize her, when she would sit down and play by the hour together. Her execution was bold, slow, rather coarse, full of deep feeling.
The two women were excessively fond of each other, thought neither cared to show it. Temperamentally, however, they were so antagonistic that frequent quarrels were inevitable. Whenever this happened, the aunt ordinarily expressed herself in vigorous language, while Isbel, on the other hand, would become sullen and vindictive, saying little, but requiring time to be appeased.
As soon as dinner was concluded, the trio retired to Mrs. Moor’s private apartment on the first floor. The waiter brought up coffee and Chartreuse. The room was handsomely appointed, a distinctive note being lent to it by the bowls of pale chrysanthemums with which it was profusely and artistically decorated — Isbel’s labour of love. The evening was chilly, and a small fire was burning in the grate. They brought their chairs forward, so as to form a semi-circle round the hearth, Isbel being in the middle. She stretched a languid hand up, and took two cigarettes from an open box on the mantelshelf, passing one to Marshall and keeping one herself; Mrs. Moor very rarely smoked.
For some twenty minutes they talked business. Marshall told them exactly what he had accomplished on the other side, and what still remained to be done.
“Anyhow,” said Mrs. Moor, “it seems that the main difficulties have been got over, and the money’s quite safe for Isbel?”
“Oh, quite. She may have to wait some months before she can touch it — that’s the only thing.”
Isbel took little sips of coffee, and looked reflectively into the fire.
“No doubt you’ll find a use for it, Isbel, when it does come.”
“Oh, it’s more sentimental, aunt. Naturally, I don’t want to go to Marshall with empty hands.”
The others protested simultaneously.
“You needn’t cry out,” said the girl calmly. “I know it’s done very day, but that’s no reason why I should be content to follow suit. After all, why should a married woman be a parasite? It makes her out to be a kind of property. And that’s not the worst . . . ”
“Very well, child. You’ve got the money — don’t make a fuss.”
“Isbel’s right, mind you,” said Marshall. “There’s a decent amount of cold horse-sense about what she says. A girl wants to feel independent. I’m not gifted with a great deal of imagination, but I can see it must be pretty rotten to have to keep on good terms with a man — even when she’s not feeling like it — simply and solely for the sake of his cash.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much of my attitude as yours,” replied Isbel.
“Now, that is rather uncalled for. It isn’t at all likely that a question of private means is going to affect my behaviour. What made you come out with that?”
“Oh, I don’t mean it in your sense,” said Isbel. “I don’t mean anything brutal or tyrannical, of course. I simply say that your whole attitude toward me would be unconsciously modified, and you couldn’t help it. Being a man, the mere knowledge that you held the purse would be bound to make you kinder and more chivalrous toward me. That would be a lifelong humiliation. I should never be able to feel quite sure whether you were being kind to me or to my poverty.”
“Rot!” exclaimed Marshall. “That sort of thing doesn’t exist in married life.”
“I couldn’t bear to ask for love and be fed with sympathy.” Her voice was cold, quiet, and perfectly unembarrassed.
“You girls are all the same,” said Mrs. Moor pettishly. “You have that word ‘love’ on the brain. Most married women are very thankful to have an occasional dish of sympathy set before them, I can assure you. We all know what love without sympathy is.”
“What?”
“Pure, brutal egotism, my dear. If that’s what your heart is crying for, so much the worse for you.”
“Perhaps that’s what I want, all the same. Every woman has a savage streak in her, they say. I should probably always
