Her husband’s displeasure, and the fate of the missing governess, still weighed heavily on her conscience.
A few hours later she and Wilbur were waiting in the drawing-room for Isabel to make her appearance.
“Does my amiable sister contemplate a brilliant conquest to-night, that she is so long making her toilet?” sneered the young man, who had been pressed into the service, and was impatient of the delay.
“Do speak a little more kindly of Isabel, my son,” said Mrs. Coolidge, adding, with a heavy sigh: “In all probability she will marry some day, and it is desirable that she should make a good match.”
“Certainly; only there may be a difference of opinion as to what a ‘good match’ is,” he returned, sarcastically.
“I consider any one who occupies a good position in the world, and who has plenty of money, an eligible parti.”
“Regardless of either heart, brain, or principles,” interrupted Wilbur cynically.
“Why will you be so disagreeable, Wilbur? Of course, I expect your sister will exercise good judgment in the matter, and I have no fear of her letting herself down, or losing her head by any silly nonsense,” retorted Mrs. Coolidge, pointedly.
Wilbur understood her insinuation perfectly, but would not notice it enough to reply, and just then the rustle of rich, trailing garments was heard upon the stairs.
A moment later the door opened, and Isabel entered.