“Never. She went off to Europe and nobody ever knew a thing about it.”
“How did you know about it?”—suspiciously.
“Oh, I am my father’s confidante,” boasted Isabelle. “We tell each other everything.”
“Does he still love her?”
“Oh, yes; he will bear the marks to his grave.”
A sigh of sentimental satisfaction went around.
“I wish my father was interesting like that,” sighed Peggy.
It was in the spring when romance was in the very air, that a motor honked up the hill, and Wally inquired for Isabelle. Mrs. Benjamin received him.
“I’m anxious about Isabelle,” he said, early in their talk.
“Anxious?”