As a matter of fact, one of the survivors of this trio was to move much further than to London, namely, Isobel herself. It happened thus. The funeral was over; the relatives and the few friends who attended it had departed to their rooms if they were stopping in the house, or elsewhere; Isobel and her father were left alone. She confronted him, a tall, slim figure, whose thick blonde hair and pale face contrasted strikingly with her black dress. Enormous in shape, for so Sir John had grown, carmine-coloured shading to purple about the shaved chin and lips (which were also of rather a curious hue), bald-headed, bold yet shifty-eyed, also clad in black, with a band of crape like to that of a Victorian mute, about his shining tall hat, he leaned against the florid, marble mantelpiece, a huge obese blot upon its whiteness. They were a queer contrast, as dissimilar perhaps as two human beings well could be. For a while there was silence between them, which he, whose nerves were not so young or strong as his daughter’s, was the first to break. “Well, she’s dead, poor dear,” he said. “Yes,” answered Isobel, her pent-up indignation bursting forth, “and you killed her.” Then he too burst forth. “Damn you, what do you mean, you little minx?” he asked. “Why do you say I killed her, because I did what I thought the best for all of us? No woman had a better husband, as I am sure she acknowledges in heaven to-day.” “I don’t know what Mother thinks in heaven, if there is one for her, as there ought to be. But I do know what I think on earth,” remarked the burning Isobel. “And I know what I think also,” shouted her enraged parent, dashing the new, crape-covered hat on to the table in front of him, “and it is that the further you and I are apart from each other, the better we are likely to get on.” “I agree with you, Father.” “Look here, Isobel, you said that your uncle Edgar, who has been appointed Minister to Mexico, offered to take you with him to be a companion to his daughter, your cousin Emily. Well, you can go if you like. I’ll pay the shot and shut up this house for a while. I’m sick of the cursed place, and can get to Harwich just as well from London. Write and make the arrangements, for one year, no more. By that time your temper may have improved,” he added with an ugly sneer. “Thank you, Father, I will.” He stared at her for a little while. She met his gaze unflinchingly, and in the end it was not her eyes that dropped. Then with a smothered exclamation he stamped out of the room, kicking Isobel’s little terrier out of the path with his elephantine foot. The poor beast, of which she was very fond, limped to her whining, for it was much hurt. She took it in her arms and kissed it, weeping tears of wrath and pity.