But Gwynne seldom had an opportunity to tease her. He drew his finger along the heavy coil of hair that rose from the very nape of her neck and pushed forward a soft little mass on to the brow. "I have always wanted to see something here," he said. "I remember once seeing a lovely print of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria, who wore her hair somewhat as you do—"
"Not a bit of it. Her hair was generally half-way down her back—"
"Well the effect was the same—and in this print she had a row of daisies or stars; I never could remember which—"
"You haven't brought me daisies?" said Isabel, in disgust.
Gwynne pressed the little gilt nob, and as the lid flew up Isabel cried out, with delight.
"You shouldn't! But I don't care! I said I wouldn't. I never expected anything so gorgeous, though—"
She caught the box from his hand and fastened the diamond stars in the line he had indicated. There were five, graduated in size, and they gave her beauty its final touch of poetry and light. Isabel gazed at her dazzling reflection with parted lips and dancing eyes, then turned impulsively, flung her arms about Gwynne's neck, and kissed him. He pushed her away roughly.
"Don't do that again!" he said. "I am not your brother, nor one of your girl friends. Can I look about? I have always had a curiosity to see this room. I had an idea that it was different from the one at the ranch."
"You can look at what you like," said Isabel, indifferently. "I shall look at my stars. Madre de Dios! as our Spanish ancestors would have said. Ay yi! Valgame Dios! Dios de mi alma! Dios de mi vida! I never was so happy in my life."
Gwynne walked about the large old-fashioned room with its bow-window, and alcove for the bed. He had half expected that the room he had so often passed with reluctant steps would be furnished in blue or pink, but it was as red as that of the traditional queen. Isabel had brought up all the old crimson damask curtains that had been fashionable in her grandmother's time, and covered the windows and walls of her bedroom, even the head of the mahogany four-poster in which her mother and herself had been born. The carpet was new, but a dull crimson, like the faded hangings, and the dressing-table with its quantity of chased silver—one of the few inheritances she had managed to retain—was the only spot of light in the rather sombre room: it was all white muslin and bright crimson silk. There was an old-fashioned settle against the wall and three stiff chairs. Gwynne liked the room, and had a vague feeling that he knew Isabel a little better. Certainly it expressed a side of her of which he had caught but an occasional glimpse.