Isabel came with the Osborns:  George soon to be taken secretly home by Rowan; Kate (who had forced herself to accompany him despite her bereavement), lacerated but giving no sign even to Isabel, who relieved the situation by attaching herself momentarily to her hostesses.

“Mamma,” protested Marguerite, with indignant eyes, “do you wish Isabel to stand here and eclipse your daughter?  Station her on the far side of grandmother, and let the men pass this way first!”

The Merediths were late.  As they advanced to pay their respects, Isabel maintained her composure.  An observer, who had been told to watch, might have noticed that when Rowan held out his hand, she did not place hers in it; and that while she did not turn her face away from his face, her eyes never met his eyes.  She stood a little apart from the receiving group at the moment and spoke to him quickly and awkwardly: 

“As soon as you can, will you come and walk with me through the parlors?  Please do not pay me any more attention.  When the evening is nearly over, will you find me and take me to some place where we may not be interrupted?  I will explain.”

Without waiting for his assent, she left him, and returned with a laugh to the side of Marguerite, who was shaking a finger threateningly at her.

It was now past one o’clock:  guests were already leaving.

When Rowan went for Isabel, she was sitting with Professor Hardage.  They were not talking; and her eyes had a look of strained expectancy.  As soon as she saw him, she rose and held out her hand to Professor Hardage; then without speaking and still without looking at him, she placed the tips of her fingers on the elbow of his sleeve.  As they walked away, she renewed her request in a low voice:  “Take me where we shall be undisturbed.”

They left the rooms.  It was an interval between the dances:  the verandas were crowded.  They passed out into the yard.  Along the cool paths, college boys and college girls strolled by in couples, not caring who listened to their words and with that laughter of youth, the whole meaning of which is never realized save by those who hear it after they have lost it.  Older couples sat here and there in quiet nooks—­with talk not meant to be heard and with occasional laughter so different.

They moved on, seeking greater privacy.  Marguerite’s lamps were burnt out—­brief flames as measured by human passion.  But overhead burnt the million torches of the stars.  How brief all human passion measured by that long, long light!

He stopped at last: 

“Here?”

She placed herself as far as possible from him.