“Not for a millionaire baby's ransom!” answered Isabel promptly. “Give me my drawing tools and plans and I'm happy--but this business”--she swept a white hand wearily about--“it's not my work, that's all.” “But you _enjoy_ it, don't you--I mean having nice things?” asked her friend. “Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can't a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but I don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!” Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. “You're lucky, you have other interests,” she said. “How about our bungalow? have you got any farther?” Mrs. Porne flushed. “I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days. No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired.” “That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. You can get at it now, can't you--with this other Belle to the fore?” “She's not Belle, bless you--she's 'Miss Bell.' It's her last name.” Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. “Well--why not? Like a seamstress, I suppose.” “Exactly.” That's what she said. “If this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy--Oh she's a most superior _and_ opinionated young person, I can see that.” “I like her looks,” admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, “but can't we look over those plans again; there's something I wanted to suggest.” And they went up to the big room on the third floor. In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman. She was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women. She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till her friend fairly laughed at her. “And you say you're not domestic!” “I'm a domestic architect, if you like,” said Isabel; “but not a domestic servant.--I'll remember what you say about those windows--it's a good idea,” and she made a careful note of Mrs. Weatherstone's suggestion. That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel followed at last and took her hand. “Did you love him so much?” she asked softly. “Who?” was the surprising answer. “Why--Mr. Weatherstone,” said Mrs. Porne. “No--not very much. But he was something.” Isabel was puzzled. “I knew you so well in school,” she said, “and that gay year in Paris. You were always a dear, submissive quiet little thing--but not like this. What's happened Viva?”