"Then, my dear child, there is no more to be said. This is the evidence: it is for you to consider the verdict."
And Isabel did consider it to the exclusion of every other subject; and grew pale and wan with the conflict betwixt her contending inclinations. But—true to her order—she fulfilled all her social engagements, and talked and laughed as courageously as ever.
The Marchioness of Wallingford's ball was one of the events of the season—and it fell on the eve of the day when Isabel was to give Paul his final answer. Yet the girl was as undecided as ever when she donned her war-paint.
During the evening she sat out a dance with Lord Bobby. He and Isabel had become firm and fast friends since he had confided to her his attachment to her cousin Violet, and she had sympathized with him.
"You don't look very flourishing," said Lord Bobby kindly, as they sat together under the shelter of a huge palm. "Has any one been bullying you?"
"Life in general has been bullying me," replied Isabel sadly.
"How vile of it! I never thought so badly of life before. It certainly won't be worth living if it begins to be rude to you; I shall have to give it the cut direct by committing suicide, if it insults you again."
"Oh! Bobby, do help me," cried Isabel, with a sudden impulse laying a beseeching little hand on his arm. "You are so young and foolish, and everybody else is so old and wise. I'm old and wise too, and I'm sick of it."
"Poor little girl, what is wrong?"
"Paul Seaton wants me to marry him, and I want it too—but I'm not sure if I've the courage to make such a bad match. I know I'm a wretch to feel like that, but that is how I feel."