ord thanked heaven that
this pattern son of his had never been infected by the vulgar
modern craze for money making. His salary would not have kept him
in luxury in a cottage of his own, but it was enough to make the
vicarage a comfortable home for him; and, so long as he remained
unmarried, what could he want more, after all, than the society
of his own family and his kind country neighbours?

Rowsley, cheerfully making both ends meet in the Artillery on an
allowance from his godmother, was off his father's hands.
Isabel? Mr. Stafford did not trouble much about Isabel, who was
only a little girl. She was a happy, healthy young thing, and
Mr. Stafford was giving her a thoroughly good education. She
would be able to earn her own living when he died, if she were
not married, as every woman ought to be. (There was no one for
Isabel to marry, but Mr. Stafford's principles rose superior to
facts.) Meantime it was not as if she were running wild: that
sweet woman Laura Clowes and the charming minx at the Castle
between them could safely be left to form her manners and see
after her clothes.

One summer afternoon Isabel was coming back from an afternoon's
tennis at Wharton. Mrs. Clowes brought her in the Wanhope car as
far as the Wanhope footpath, and would have sent her home, but
Isabel declined, ostensibly because she wanted to stretch her
legs, actually because she couldn't afford to tip the Wanhope
chauffeur. So she tumbled out of the car and walked away at a
great rate, waving Laura farewell with her tennis racquet.
Isabel was a tall girl of nineteen, but she still plaited her
hair in a pigtail which swung, thick and dark and glossy, well
below her waist. She wore a holland blouse and skirt, a sailor
hat trimmed with a band of Rowsley's ribbon, brown cotton
stockings, and brown sandshoes bought for 5/11-3/4 of Chapman,
the leading draper in Chilmark High Street. Isabel made her own
clothes and made them badly. Her skirt was short in front and
narrow below the waist, and her sailor blouse was comfortably but
inelegantly loose round the armholes. Laura Clowes, who had a
French instinct of dress, and would have clad Isabel as Guinevere
clad Enid, if Isabel had not been prouder than Enid, looked after
her with a smile and a sigh: it was a grief to her to see her
young friend so shabby, but, bless the child! how little she
cared--and how little it signified after all! Isabel's poverty
sat as light on her spiri