She walked on and reached the steps of the veranda.  Crying out in his longing he threw his arms around her and held her close.

“You must not!  You shall not!  Do you know what you are doing, Isabel?”

She made not the least reply, not the least effort to extricate herself.  But she closed her eyes and shuddered and twisted her body away from him as a bird of the air bends its neck and head as far as possible from a repulsive captor; and like the heart of such a bird, he could feel the throbbing of her heart.

Her mute submission to his violence stung him:  he let her go.  She spread out her arms as though in a rising flight of her nature and the shawl, tossed backward from her shoulders, fell to the ground:  it was as if she cast off the garment he had touched.  Then she went quickly up the steps.  Before she could reach the door he confronted her again; he pressed his back against it.  She stretched out her hand and rang the bell.  He stepped aside very quickly—­proudly.  She entered, closing and locking noiselessly the door that no sound might reach the servant she had summoned.  As she did so she heard him try the knob and call to her in an undertone of last reproach and last entreaty: 

“Isabel!—­Isabel!—­Isabel!”

Hurrying through the hall, she ran silently up the stairs to her room and shut herself in.

Her first feeling was joy that she was there safe from him and from every one else for the night.  Her instant need was to be alone.  It was this feeling also that caused her to go on tiptoe around the room and draw down the blinds, as though the glimmering windows were large eyes peering at her with intrusive wounding stare.  Then taking her position close to a front window, she listened.  He was walking slowly backward and forward on the pavement reluctantly, doubtfully; finally he passed through the gate.  As it clanged heavily behind him, Isabel pressed her hands convulsively to her heart as though it also had gates which had closed, never to reopen.

Then she lighted the gas-jets beside the bureau and when she caught sight of herself the thought came how unchanged she looked.  She stood there, just as she had stood before going down to supper, nowhere a sign of all the deep displacement and destruction that had gone on within.

But she said to herself that what he had told her would reveal itself in time.  It would lie in the first furrows deepening down her cheeks; it would be the earliest frost of years upon her hair.

A long while she sat on the edge of the couch in the middle of the room under the brilliant gaslight, her hands forgotten in her lap, her brows arched high, her eyes on the floor.  Then her head beginning to ache, a new sensation for her, she thought she should bind a wet handkerchief to it as she had often done for her aunt; but the water which the maid had placed in the room had become warm.  She must go down to the ewer in the hall.  As she did so, she recollected her shawl.