and he moved as if to rise.

"Just let's stay like this a little while, dear. Just a minute or two.
I want to tell you: brother George has been here, and he told me
everything about--about how unhappy you'd been--and how you went so
gallantly to that old woman with the operaglasses." Isabel gave a sad
little laugh. "What a terrible old woman she is! What a really terrible
thing a vulgar old woman can be!"

"Mother, I--" And again he moved to rise.

"Must you? It seemed to me such a comfortable way to talk. Well--" She
yielded; he rose, helped her to her feet, and pressed the light into
being.

As the room took life from the sudden lines of fire within the bulbs
Isabel made a deprecatory gesture, and, with a faint laugh of apologetic
protest, turned quickly away from George. What she meant was: "You
mustn't see my face until I've made it nicer for you." Then she turned
again to him, her eyes downcast, but no sign of tears in them, and she
contrived to show him that there was the semblance of a smile upon her
lips. She still wore her hat, and in her unsteady fingers she held a
white envelope, somewhat crumpled.

"Now, mother--"

"Wait, dearest," she said; and though he stood stone cold, she lifted
her arms, put them round him again, and pressed her cheek lightly to
his. "Oh, you do look so troubled, poor dear! One thing you couldn't
doubt, beloved boy: you know I could never care for anything in the
world as I care for you--never, never!"

"Now, mother--"

She released him, and stepped back. "Just a moment more, dearest. I want
you to read this first. We can get at things better." She pressed into
his hand the envelope she had brought with her, and as he opened it, and
began to read the long enclosure, she walked slowly to the other end of
the room; then stood there, with her back to him, and her head drooping
a little, until he had finished.

The sheets of paper were covered with Eugene's handwriting.

George Amberson will bring you this, dear Isabel. He is waiting while I
write. He and I have talked things over, and before he gives this to you
he will tell you what has happened. Of course I'm rather confused, and
haven't had time to think matters out very definitely, and yet I believe
I should have been better prepared for what took place to-day--I ought
to have known it was coming, because I have understood for quite a long
time that young George was getting to dislike me more and more. Somehow,
I've never