“Certainly,” she acceded, and passed into the library. Ada closed the door behind her. Isabel was resplendent in her evening costume; her pure, shapely neck and shoulders gleamed above the dark richness of her robe, the gold and jewels made worthy adornment of her beauty. Her colour a trifle heightened, her eyes lustrous with foresight of homage, her white, womanly brows crowned with the natural tiara of her hair--fine and rich still as in her girlhood--the proud poise of her small and perfect head, these things were lovelier to-night than on the day when her picture had been painted as a young bride. Maturity had rewarded her with its dower, which so few dare count upon. To-night she was a woman whom men of ripe experience, men of the world, would take for herself, asking no wealth but that of her matchless charm, a woman for whom younger and more passionate hearts would break with longing. “What is it, Ada?” she asked in a voice of concern. “This, Mrs. Clarendon. You rightly required of me that I should keep secret no step that affected us both. I wish to tell you that I have accepted an offer from Mr. Lacour--that I am going to be married to him.” She spoke neither hurriedly nor vehemently. The only measure of her feeling was in the words she used, the plainest and directest which came into her mind. Isabel regarded her steadily for a moment. The look was grave, not hostile. Her eyes were dulled a little, her cheeks less warm, the jewels on her breast rose and fell; but she mastered the emotions which such an announcement could not but cause, forced back that cold, heavy flood which just touched her heart, held her own against the onset of fears. “You have well considered this, Ada?” Her hand sought the nearest chair, but she resisted the need of seating herself, merely rested her gloved fingers on the back. “Yes, I have given it all the consideration that is necessary,” was Ada’s reply, less self-controlled than her last speech. “But why do you tell me in this way?” Isabel inquired, when she had again regarded the girl’s pale anguish. “What has happened? What has offended you?” “I have said all that I wished to say, Mrs. Clarendon,” continued the other, regardless, seeming not to hear what was asked of her. “Please to tell me whether I am free to act, whether, as I am still under your authority, you will use it or not to oppose my marriage?” “I cannot understand you, Ada. Why do you speak to me so harshly? What unkindness have I been guilty of, and so recently?” She stopped, her eyes fell, a thought seemed to strike her. “Have I _said_ anything to hurt you?” Ada made a nervous movement, then spoke more calmly. “I should not allow anything you say to influence my actions. Will you please tell me what I wish to know?”