“Oh, yes, they will! It is not anger: they think Neville a traitor, and they will never get over it.”
“So you hear from your husband often?”
“Yes.”
“And write to him often?”
“I have opportunities of communicating with him. I can’t tell you what they are.”
“I don’t wish to know,” quickly replied Adrienne, “I never ask personal questions. But this life you are living is as strange to you in a way as to me.”
“Quite so. This time two years ago, when you were going to balls at the Tuileries, I thought of nothing except of how merry we would be at Christmas when Neville would be here, and of my new riding habit from Baltimore, and of what music and books I should order. Now there is a gulf between me and everybody I ever knew and loved in my life, except Neville and Mr. Lyddon, perhaps. And at any moment a summons may come to me to join Neville. Then I shall go away, never to come back, and will leave behind me everything I ever knew or loved except Neville.” Something in Angela’s tone as she said this, in the despairing expression of her eye, told much to Adrienne.
“Yes,” she said, putting up her hand to shield her eyes from the long lances of light from the dying sun, “you will never see Captain Isabey again.” The words went like an arrow to its mark. Angela remained silent with downcast gaze for a minute, and then, recovering herself, she turned toward Adrienne and said calmly, but with eyes sparkling with indignation: “Probably I shall not again see Captain Isabey; but what does that matter, and why do you say that to me?”
“I do not know why I said it,” replied Adrienne, “except that no one who ever lived and felt can be always discreet; certainly I cannot. But from the hour you met him he has had a singular influence over you.”
Angela’s quickness of wit answered for experience in fencing, and she replied coolly: “Neither Captain Isabey nor any other man, except my husband, has any influence over me.”