"I don't care. What difference does it make? I want him to be happy, and he can have a career anywhere. In your case beauty is not a curse, and I should be glad to see you concentrate your gifts where you can find and give real happiness. Now, enjoy yourself like a girl to-night and don't bother about Jack or any one else--certainly not about me," as Isabel stood looking down upon her with a puckered brow. Lady Victoria, in a negligee of salmon pink under a red light, and reclining on her divan with a box of cigarettes beside her, and a French novel in her hand, looked little less handsome than when she had captivated Isabel's girlish fancy a year ago. It was only the utter weariness of the eyes, and a subtle hardening of the whole mask of the always immobile face, that betrayed the sudden rupture with a long complacent youth. But she looked at Isabel's glorious youth without a pang of envy in her cynical, if not yet philosophical, soul, and said again, with emphasis: "Marry him. You can do it. Any woman can marry any man she wants. That is the reason we are never really happy. We never love men, as we imagine that we could love. We have fevers for them that last a few weeks, and then we become maternal and endure them. We might love a demi-god, never man as we know him. Perhaps in some other world--who knows?" Isabel pricked up her ears. Was Lady Victoria meditating the consolations of the Church--or of Flora's more modern substitute? What a solution! But she dared not ask. She was still a little afraid of her complicated relative. She begged her not to read too late, and went out, promising to conciliate the offended Mrs. Hofer.