But now there would be a triumph. Her eyes gleamed brightly as she thought of the way in which she would achieve her triumph. Her eyes gleamed very brightly as she felt sure within her own bosom that she would succeed. Yes: he would, no doubt, have some stupid notion, as her father said. But she would overcome his stupidity. She, as a woman, could be stronger than he as a man. He had almost ridiculed her obstinacy, swearing that he would certainly overcome it. There should be no ridicule on her part, but she would certainly overcome his obstinacy. For a day or two Mr Owen was not seen. She heard from her father that the tidings had been told to her lover, but she heard no more. Mr Owen did not show himself at the house; and she, indeed, hardly expected that he should do so. Her stepmother suddenly became gracious,--having no difficulty in explaining that she did so because of the altered position of things. "My dearest Isabel, it does make such a difference!" she said; "you will be a rich lady, and will never have to think about the price of shoes." The sisters were equally plain-spoken, and were almost awe-struck in their admiration. Three or four days after the return of Mr Brodrick, Isabel took her bonnet and shawl, and walked away all alone to Mr Owen's lodgings. She knew his habits, and was aware that he was generally to be found at home for an hour before his dinner. It was no time, she said to herself, to stand upon little punctilios. There had been too much between them to let there be any question of a girl going after her lover. She was going after her lover, and she didn't care who knew it. Nevertheless, there was a blush beneath her veil as she asked at the door whether Mr Owen was at home. Mr Owen was at home, and she was shown at once into his parlour. "William," she said;--throughout their intimacy she had never called him William before;--"you have heard my news?" "Yes," he said, "I have heard it;"--very seriously, with none of that provoking smile with which he had hitherto responded to all her assertions. "And you have not come to congratulate me?" "I should have done so. I do own that I have been wrong." "Wrong;--very wrong! How was I to have any of the enjoyment of my restored rights unless you came to enjoy them with me?" "They can be nothing to me, Isabel." "They shall be everything to you, sir." "No, my dear." "They are to be everything to me, and they can be nothing to me without you. You know that, I suppose?" Then she waited for his reply. "You know that, do you not? You know what I feel about that, I say. Why do you not tell me? Have you any doubt?" "Things have been unkind to us, Isabel, and have separated us."