"Yes, I can see it now—I never realized it before—he has helped me all my life."
She told of her first sight of him, of her long ride home, of her thoughts of him, reserving something, of course, and her voice grew husky with remembered emotion. She uttered more than she knew. She showed the keen little woman at her side the more imaginative side of her nature. It became evident to Isabel that the beautiful poise of the head and supple swing of the girl's body was in part due to the suggestion of the man's perfect grace. His idealized face had made the commonplace apparent—had led her, lifted her.
"Why, it's all a poem!" she exclaimed at the end. "It's magnificent; and you thought I'd laugh!" She looked reproachful. "I think it's incredibly beautiful. What was his name? We may meet him some time—"
Rose drew back and grew hot with a blush.
"Oh, no—I don't want to see him now. I'm afraid he wouldn't seem the same to me now."
Isabel considered. "You're right! He never really existed. He was a product of your own clean, sweet imagination, but let me tell you—" she made a swift feminine turn to the trivial, "You'll marry a tall, lathy man, or a short, dumpy man. That's the way things go. Really, I'll need to keep Doctor and Mason out of the house."
CHAPTER XXIII
A STORM AND A HELMSMAN
In quiet wise her winter wore on. In a month or two the home feeling began to make itself felt, and the city grew less appalling, though hardly less oppressive. There were moments when it seemed the most splendid presence in the world—at sunset, when the river was crowded with shipping and the great buildings loomed up blue as wood-smoke, almost translucent; when the brick walls grew wine-colored; when the river was flooded with radiance from the western sun, and the great steamers lay like birds wearied and dreaming after a long journey.