“Yes, it’s impossible,” said Pansy without a sigh and with the same extreme attention in her clear little face.
“You must think of something else then,” Isabel went on; but Pansy, sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without the least success.
“You think of those who think of you,” she said with a faint smile. “I know Mr. Rosier thinks of me.”
“He ought not to,” said Isabel loftily. “Your father has expressly requested he shouldn’t.”
“He can’t help it, because he knows I think of him.”
“You shouldn’t think of him. There’s some excuse for him, perhaps; but there’s none for you.”
“I wish you would try to find one,” the girl exclaimed as if she were praying to the Madonna.
“I should be very sorry to attempt it,” said the Madonna with unusual frigidity. “If you knew some one else was thinking of you, would you think of him?”
“No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right.”
“Ah, but I don’t admit Mr. Rosier’s right!” Isabel hypocritically cried.