"She enjoys herself always," I answered. "She is of that disposition. Still——"
She put her hands up to her ears.
"Come, I won't be lectured," she exclaimed. "Seriously, I wanted you here. I had something to say to you—something particular."
"Waiving the other matter, then," I said, "I am wholly at your service."
"I may be prolix," she said quietly. "Forgive me if I am, but I want you to understand me. I am beginning to see that I have adopted a wrong position with regard to a certain matter which we have discussed at your rooms and at Argueil. I want to reopen the subject from an entirely different point of view."
"You mean," I said, "the subject of Isobel?"
"Of course! The first time I came to see you," Lady Delahaye said, looking up at me with penitence in her blue eyes, "I was horrid. I am very, very sorry. I did not know then who Isobel was, and I was angry with everyone—with poor Will, with the child herself, and with you. You must forgive me! I was very much upset."
"I will never think of it again," I promised her.
"Then, again, at Argueil," she continued, "I adopted a wrong tone altogether. Yours was the more natural, the more human point of view. There are certain very grave reasons why the child would be very much better out of the world. A life of seclusion would, I believe, in the end, when she is able to understand, be the happiest for her. And yet—she ought to have her chance!"
"I am glad that you admit that," I murmured.