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Updated: June 22, 2025
She had stood almost motionless before the window from the moment she had entered her room until Miss Thangue knocked at the door, and by that time she had repoised herself and set her heavy mouth in a hard line as she reflected upon her own will as a factor in any game with life. "Jack wants you to go for a walk," announced Miss Thangue, who saw no occasion for subtlety.
I almost wish Lady Victoria had not asked me down, although I have wanted all my life to visit one of the ancestral homes of England." "Oh, you'll get over that, and used to us," said Miss Thangue, smiling. "Your staircase is behind this door, and we can slip out without attracting attention. They are all gabbling over Jack's election."
Miss Thangue, who had never seen her friend's hand tremble among the teacups before, felt an edge on her mental appetite, stimulating after two monotonous years abroad. It was several minutes, however, before she made any effort to relieve her curiosity, for of all her patron-friends Victoria Gwynne required the most delicate touch.
I wish my cousin had chosen Miss Thangue or any one else." "But he couldn't marry Flora," said the literal young nobleman. "She hasn't a penny, and is the friend of all our mothers. But I'm sorry you've such a bad opinion of Mrs. Kaye. She's tremendously popular with us.
The next morning, Isabel, after little sleep, rose early and went out for a walk. She had sat up until eleven, listening to the puzzling jets of conversation, or watching the Bridge-players, and when she had finally reached her room, tired and excited, Flora Thangue had come in for a last cigarette and half an hour of chat.
When she finally made an uncontrollable movement that half-overturned the cream-jug, Flora Thangue's curiosity overcame her, and she murmured, tentatively: "If I had ever seen you nervous before, Vicky " "I am not nervous, but allowances are to be made for maternal anxiety." "Oh!" Miss Thangue drew a deep breath. She continued, vaguely, "Oh, the maternal rôle "
Flora Thangue had extracted all the particulars of the death and suicide from Lady Victoria who knew nothing, however, of the tragic cause of both and imparted them to Isabel, whose mind, in consequence, was free of morbid curiosity. She had also read the newspapers.
Lady Victoria, unconscious of the analytical mind groping to conclusions beside her, was revolving the midnight comments of Flora Thangue, and her own impressions of this American relative whose sudden advent, taken in connection with her eighteenth century beauty and undecipherable quality, wrought the impression of a symbolic figure swimming out of space.
She was barely five feet five, but she ranked with tall women, her height as unchallenged as the chiselling of her profile. "What frauds we all are!" she thought, with a humor of which she had not vouchsafed Miss Thangue a hint. "But what is a cunningly made slipper on a foot not so small, at the end of a body not quite long enough, but an encouraging example of the triumph of art over nature?
It needed more than that, and more than disillusions of the second class, no matter how inordinate, to give a girl the cool reality of poise that had stimulated the curiosity of Miss Thangue; and this Isabel had encountered, during the most critical period of her inner life, in the beautiful city by the Isar.
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