She drew herself up to her full height, straight as a reed, but with fully developed bust and shoulders which showed to advantage in her pale tussore gown--silk that her brother had sent her from India. She looked the incarnation of girlish innocence and girlish happiness--a brow without a cloud, a step light as a fawn’s--a fearless, joyous nature. Her more commonplace features and finer figure were in curious contrast with Isola’s pensive beauty and too fragile form. Disney glanced from one to the other as he walked along the rustic lane between them; and, though he thought his wife the lovelier, he regretted that she was not more like his sister. * * * * * A man who is very fond of home and who has no professional cares and occupations is apt to degenerate into a molly-coddle. Martin Disney gave an indication of this weakness on the day before the dinner at Glenaveril. “What are you two girls going to wear?” he asked. “At least, I don’t think I need ask Isola that question. You’ll wear your wedding-gown, of course, love?” he added, turning to his wife. “No, Martin, I am going to wear my grey silk.” “Grey! A dowager’s colour, a soured spinster’s colour--a Quaker’s no colour. I detest grey.” “Oh, but this is a very pretty gown--the palest shade of pearl colour--and I wear pink roses with it. It was made in Paris. I feel sure you will like me in it, Martin,” Isola said hurriedly, as if even this small matter fluttered her nerves. “Not as well as I like you in your wedding-gown. That was made in Paris, and it fitted you like a glove. I never saw such a pretty gown--so simple, yet so elegant.” “I have been married much too long to dress as a bride.” “You shall not seem as a bride--except to me. For my eyes only shall you shine in bridal loveliness. Bride or no bride, what can be prettier for a young woman than a white satin gown with a long train? You can wear some touch of colour to show you have not got yourself up as a bride. What do you say, Allegra? Give us your opinion. Of course you are an authority upon dress.” “Oh, the white satin, by all means. Isola looks ethereal in white. She ought hardly ever to wear anything else.” “You hear, Isa. Two to one against you.” “I’m sorry I can’t be governed by your opinions in this instance. You forget that I last wore my gown at a ball. I danced a good deal--the floor was dirty--the gown was spoilt. I shall never wear it again. I hope that will satisfy you, Martin.” She spoke with a touch of temper, her cheeks flushed crimson, and her eyes filled with sudden tears as she looked deprecatingly at her husband. Martin Disney felt himself a brute.