From any other member other family she would roughly have demanded the explanation she desired.  She was the mother of strong men (they were living far from her now), and even in his manhood no one of them had ever crossed her will without bearing away the scars of her anger, and always of her revenge.  But before this grandchild, whom she had reared from infancy, she felt the brute cowardice which is often the only tribute that a debased nature can pay to the incorruptible.  Her love must have its basis in some abject emotion:  it took its origin from fear.

An unforeseen incident, occurring when Isabel was yet a child and all but daily putting forth new growths of nature, rendered very clear even then the developing antagonism and prospective relationship of these two characters.  In a company of ladies the grandmother, drawing the conversation to herself, remarked with a suggestive laugh that as there were no men present she would tell a certain story.  “Grandmother,” interposed Isabel, vaguely startled, “please do not say anything that you would not say before a man;” and for an instant, amid the hush, the child and the woman looked at each other like two repellent intelligences, accidentally meeting out of the heavens and the pit.

This had been the first of a long series of antagonism and recoils, and as the child had matured, the purity and loftiness of her nature had by this very contact grown chilled toward austerity.  Thus nature lends a gradual protective hardening to a tender surface during abrasion with a coarser thing.  It left Isabel more reserved with her grandmother than with any one else of all the persons who entered into her life.

For this reason Mrs. Conyers now foresaw that this interview would be specially difficult.  She had never enjoyed Isabel’s confidence in regard to her love affairs—­and the girl had had her share of these; every attempt to gain it had been met by rebuffs so courteous but decisive that they had always wounded her pride and sometimes had lashed her to secret fury.

“Did you wish to see me about anything, grandmother?”

The reply came very quickly:  “I wanted to know whether you were well.”

“I am perfectly well.  Why did you think of asking?”

“You did not seem well in church.”

“I had forgotten.  I was not well in church.”

Mrs. Conyers bent over and drew a chair in front of her own.  She wished to watch Isabel’s face.  She had been a close student of women’s faces—­and of many men’s.

“Sit here.  There is a breeze through the window.”

“Thank you.  I’d rather sit here.”

Another pause ensued.

“Did you ever know the last of May to be so hot?”

“I cannot remember now.”

“Can you imagine any one calling on such an afternoon?”

There was no reply.

“I am glad no one has been here.  While I was asleep I thought I heard the bell.”