"Whose fault is that?"
"Destiny's fault, I suppose. I was nursing the sick, when I ought to have been in school and in society."
Mrs. Campbell did not answer this reproach. Destiny was a good enough apology. No one could thwart Destiny. She at least was not to blame for the wrongs of Destiny. She sat dourly still and silent, the very image of resentful disappointment. The silence was indeed so profound, that one could hear the passage of Isabel's needle through the silk she was sewing, and for ten minutes both women maintained the attitude they had taken.
Then Isabel—holding her needle poised ready for the next stitch—looked at her mother. Her expression of hopeless defeat was pathetic, and her silent, motionless endurance of it, touched Isabel's heart as tears and complaints never could have done. She rose and, taking her mother's dropped hand, said:
"Never mind, mother. You will often see Christina wearing her fineries in her grand new home. That will be far better than taking them out of a trunk to look at."
"Isabel, I care nothing about seeing them. I wanted to show them. People will never believe she got all I said she did."
"Why should you care whether they believe it or not? And why not pay the newspapers to make a notice of them. They will send some youngster here to item them, and you can give him a sovereign, and a glass of wine, and then you can give Christina all the wonderfuls you like—even to the half, or the whole, of Sir Thomas Wynton's estate."
"That is the plan, Isabel. I'm glad you thought of it."
"Robert is gey fond of a newspaper notice. He'll pay the sovereign without a grumble."
"I'm sure you are an extraordinar' comfort, Isabel."