“Does it amount to an engagement?” Isabel asked, rather bluntly, but still without much show of interest.
“Oh, my dear, nothing so premature as that. In fact, I ought not to have breathed a syllable, but to you!”
Mrs. Bruce Page put her head on one side, and looked fascinatingly. Isabel reflected, seemed about to put another question, altered her mind and said to herself:
“Now what is the woman’s precise object in telling me that—that fib?”
They gossiped a little on sundry other topics, then, another lady coming up, Isabel withdrew to a more retired part of the room. The windows were deep recesses, comfortably cushioned, with a heavy, shadowing curtain on each side; in one of these retreats she established herself, watching those who moved about before her. Soon she ceased consciously to watch, her gaze grew fixed, her features made of themselves a mask woefully unlike Isabel Clarendon.
“You are not looking yourself to-night, dear Mrs. Clarendon,” said the voice of Lady Florence Cootes, as that playful young religionist crouched on a stool by Isabel’s side. “Have you a headache?”
“Yes, a little. No matter, I shall hunt tomorrow, Flo, and that always sets me up.”
“Oh, I’m sure I hope so. Have you seen father yet?”
“Seen him, but not spoken,” Isabel returned, seeming to regard a lady who stood near. “I rather thought this troublesome news from Egypt would have taken him up to town.”
“Oh, he’s like you, he won’t miss his hunting to-morrow!”