“I don’t know. She gets into trouble wherever she goes. We might open The Beeches.”
“Well, we won’t.”
In the meantime Isabelle asked Cartel daily about a job in his company.
“Nothing doing without your parents’ consent.”
“If I make them consent, do I get it?”
“Possibly; but they won’t,” he teased her.
“You don’t know me,” she warned him.
The end of August came, and with it the great man’s departure, for rehearsals in town. Isabelle was desolated. Her god, her idol, was leaving her behind, and only because of those eternal drawbacks—her parents. She said her farewell to him demurely, and echoed his hope that they would meet soon in town.
“You’ve made my summer for me, little witch,” he said, in an aside.
