"I am coming to agree with Potts, Isabelle; you need to elope."
As she looked up, startled, he added, "With me! I'll take you to South
America and bring you back a new woman."
"South America,—no thanks, brother."
"Then stay here."…
That evening Isabelle was called to the telephone, and when she came back her face was solemn.
"Percy Woodyard died last night,—pneumonia after grippe. Too bad! I haven't seen him this winter; he has been very delicate…. I must go in for the funeral."
"I thought you and Cornelia were intimate," Vickers remarked; "but I haven't heard you mention her name since I've been home."
"We were, at first; but I haven't seen much of her the last two years….
Too bad—poor Percy! Conny has killed him."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, she's worked him to death,—made him do this and that. Tom says—"
Isabelle hesitated.