Opal had asked of the Boy during that last strange hour they had spent together that he should make this visit, and bow obediently to the call of destiny—­as she had done.  She did not know who he really was, nor what station in life his fiancee graced, but she did know that it was his duty bravely and well to play his part in the drama of life, whatever the role.  She would not have him shirk.  It was a horrible thing, she had said with a shudder—­none knew it better than she—­but she would be glad all her life to think that he had been no coward, and had not cringed beneath the bitterest blow of fate, but had been strong because she loved him and believed in him.

And so, since Paul Verdayne could not be absent from his father’s side, with many a reluctant thought the Boy set forth for Austria alone.

During his absence, Isabella—­she who had been Isabella Waring—­returned from Blackheath a widow with two grown daughters—­two more modern editions of the original Isabella.  The widow herself was graver and more matronly, yet there was much of the old Isabella left, and Verdayne was glad to see her.  Lady Henrietta gave her a cordial invitation to visit Verdayne Place, which she readily accepted, passing many pleasant hours with the friend of her youth and helping to while away the long days that Verdayne found so tiresome when the Boy was away from him.

Isabella was still “a good sort,” and made life much less unbearable than it might have been, but Verdayne often smiled to think of the “puppy-love” he had once felt for her.  It was amusing, now, and they both laughed over it—­though Isabella would not have been a woman had she not wondered at times why her “old pal” had never married.  There had been chances, lots of them, for the girls had always liked the blue-eyed, manly boy he had been, and petted and flattered and courted him all through his youth.  Why hadn’t he chosen one of them?  Had he really cared so much for her—­Isabella?  And she often found herself looking with much pitying tenderness upon the lonely man, whose heart seemed so empty of the family ties it should have fostered—­and wondering.

Lady Henrietta, too, was set to thinking as the days went by, and turning, one night, to her son, “Paul,” she said, “I begin to think that perhaps I was wrong in separating you from the girl you loved, and so spoiling your life.  Isabella would have made you a fairly good wife, I believe, as wives go, and you must forgive your mother, who meant it for the best.  She did not see the way clearly, then, and so denied you the one great desire of your heart”

She looked at him closely, but his heart was no longer worn upon his sleeve, and finding his face non-committal, she went on slowly, feeling her way carefully as she advanced.

“Perhaps it is not too late now, my son.  Don’t let my prejudices stand in your way again, for you are still young enough to be happy, and I shall be truly glad to welcome any wife—­any!”