ne could divine
better than she, that, present or dismissed, when a man has conquered a
woman's invisible and indefensible part she might as well give him the
rest. He is in control. She has lost her freedom for ever. So strong was
the feeling of mental possession that Isabel glanced uneasily about the
room, half-expecting to see the soul of Gwynne; wondering inconsequently
if it would descend to notice that her eyes were red. But she vowed
passionately that she would not marry him. If she had to be unhappy, far
better unhappy alone and free, with some of her illusions undispelled.
She had seen no married happiness that she envied, even where there was
a fine measure of love and philosophy. Even Anabel had come to her one
day in town, looking rather strained and worn, and, in the seclusion of
Isabel's bedroom, had confessed that the constant exactions of a
husband, three children, and migratory servants "got on her nerves," and
made her long for a change of any sort. "And there are so many little
odd jobs, in a house full of children," she had added, with a sigh. "And
they recur every day. You can no more get away from them than from your
three meals; I never really have a moment I can call my own. Of course I
am perfectly happy, but I do wish Tom were not in politics and would
take me to Europe for a few years."

And if Anabel was not happy--wholly happy--with her supreme capacity for
the domestic life, how could she hope to endure the yoke? She with her
impossible ideals and theories? Not that they were impossible; but to
anticipate, in this world, the plane upon which the more highly endowed
natures dared to hope they were to dwell in the next, absolute freedom
was necessary. Isabel's theory of life--for women of her make--had not
altered a whit, but the beckoning finger had lost its vigor. That left
her with no material out of which to model a future for this
plane--which, of course, was another triumph to the credit of the race.

She knew that Gwynne had conquered, that she had really loved him, as
soon as he had ceased to play upon her maternal instincts. She had
casually assumed at the time that her interest in him was decreasing,
but in this day of retrospect, she realized keenly that it had marked
the opening of a new chapter. This was, perhaps, the most signal of
Gwynne's victories, for the maternal tenderness for man means maternal
dominance, a cool sense of superiority. Isabel was so conscious of
Gwynne's m