Now Isabelle had a flair for the odd, and she understood her own limitations and her own style. She was small, and slim as a reed, without being bony. She had what she called “hair-coloured” hair, and an odd face—wide between the eyes, but a perfect oval in shape. Her eyes were her only beauty.
Fluffy, young-girl clothes merely accentuated her lack of youthful prettiness. With unerring instinct as a child, she had chosen her riding clothes to show off in. Now these same clothes formed the basis of her system. By day she was always in tailored frocks of the strictest simplicity. They were linen, or silk, or wool, made after the same model. Slim, tight skirt; slim, fitted coat; sailor hat, and strange boots, which she had made to order after her own design. They were like short riding boots, pulled on and crumpled over the instep like a glove. She was striking, chic, a personality.
“By Jove! Isabelle gets herself up smartly, Max,” commented Wally, soon after their arrival at the inn. Their daughter walked toward them, with every eye on the long piazza following in her wake.
“It is too outrée, but it is effective. She knows everybody looks at her, she intends they shall, but look how the monkey carries it off,” laughed Max, struck into a sort of admiration.
“What’s doing with you to-day, my noble parents?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What are you doing?” Wally answered.
“I’m going to ride. I can’t stand this clack-clatter,” she said, indicating the groups on the veranda. “Dull lot, don’t you think?”
“Have you met any one yet?” inquired her mother.
“Don’t have to. I know what they are by just looking at them.”
“L’enfant prodige!” jeered Max.