He could scarcely
believe that in a few days her life could so have drooped as under
a dreadful blight.
"I have come to say good-by," and with a quiver of the lips she
turned her face aside and brushed past him, entering the library.
He drew his own chair close to hers when she had seated herself.
"I thought you and your grandmother were going later: is not this
unexpected?"
"Yes, it is very unexpected."
"But of course she is going with you?"
"No, I am going alone."
"For the summer?"
"Yes, for the summer. I suppose for a long time."
She continued to sit with her cheek leaning against the back of the
chair, her eyes directed outward through the windows. He asked
reluctantly:
"Is there any trouble?"
"Yes, there is trouble."
"Can you tell me what it is?"
"No, I cannot tell you what it is. I cannot tell any one what it
is."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"No, there is nothing you can do. There is nothing any one can do."
Silence followed for some time. He smiled at her sadly:
"Shall I tell you what the trouble is?"
"You do not know what it is. I believe I wish you did know. But I
cannot tell you."
"Is it not Rowan?"
She waited awhile without change of posture and answered at length
without change of tone:
"Yes, it is Rowan."
The stillness of the room became intense and prolonged; the
rustling of the leaves about the window sounded like noise.
"Are you not going to marry him, Isabel?"
"No, I am not going to marry him.
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