The upper hall, and, occasionally, the other parts of the house, smelled of the various liniments and lotions with which she anointed herself. She scorned the suggestion that she should stay in bed, for she was quite comfortable upon a couch, in her most becoming negligee, with a novel and a box of chocolates to bear her company.
At first, she had taken her meals in her own room, but, finding that it was more pleasant to be downstairs with the others for luncheon and dinner, managed to go up and down the long flight of stairs twice each day.
Placid as she was, the table was not a cheerful place, for the faces of the other two were haggard and drawn, and neither made more than a pretence of eating. Daily bulletins came from the other house as to Allison's condition, and Madame was in constant communication by telegraph with Colonel Kent. She kept him reassured as much as possible, and did not tell him of Allison's ineradicable delusion that his father was dead.
Allison's note was given to Isabel at luncheon the day after it was written, having been delayed in delivery the night before until after she was asleep. With it was a letter from her mother, which had come in the noon mail.
She opened Allison's note first, read it, and put it back into the envelope. Her mother's letter was almost equally brief. That, too, she returned to its envelope without comment.
"How is your mother, Isabel?" inquired Madame, having caught a glimpse of the bold, dashing superscription which was familiar, though infrequent.
"She's all right," Isabel answered, breaking open a hot muffin. "It's funny that it should come at the same time as the other."
"Why?" asked Rose, merely for the sake of making conversation.
"Because just as Mamma writes to tell me that marriage is slavery, but that if he can take care of me and Aunt Francesca approves of him, it will be all right, Allison writes and releases me from the engagement."
"Poor boy!" sighed Madame.