“I have no housekeeper,” said Isabel, as they went upstairs, “and I sha’n’t have one.  I think I owe it to myself, and to the maids, Sue, to take that responsibility entirely!” Susan recognized the unchanged sweetness and dutifulness that had marked the old Isabel, who could with perfect simplicity and reason seem to make a virtue of whatever she did.

They went into the sitting-room adjoining the young mistress’ bedroom, an airy exquisite apartment all colonial white and gay flowered hangings, with French windows, near which the girls settled themselves for tea.

“Nothing’s new with me,” Susan said, in answer to Isabel’s smiling inquiry.  What could she say to hold the interest of this radiant young princess?  Isabel accordingly gave her own news, some glimpses of her European wedding journey, some happy descriptions of wedding gifts.  The Saunders were abroad, she told Susan, Ella and Emily and their mother with Kenneth, at a German cure.  “And Mary Peacock—­did you know her? is with them,” said Isabel.  “I think that’s an engagement!”

“Doesn’t that seem horrible?  You know he’s incurable—­” Susan said, slowly stirring her cup.  But she instantly perceived that the comment was not acceptable to young Mrs. Furlong.  After all, thought Susan, Society is a very jealous institution, and Isabel was of its inner circle.

“Oh, I think that was all very much exaggerated!” Isabel said lightly, pleasantly.  “At least, Sue,” she added kindly, “you and I are not fair judges of it!” And after a moment’s silence, for Susan kept a passing sensation of irritation admirably concealed, she added, “—­But I didn’t show you my pearls!”

A maid presently brought them, a perfect string, which Susan slipped through her fingers with real delight.

“Woman, they’re the size of robins’ eggs!” she said.  Isabel was all sweet gaiety again.  She touched the lovely chain tenderly, while she told of Jack’s promise to give her her choice of pearls or a motor-car for her birthday, and of his giving her both!  She presently called the maid again.

“Pauline, put these back, will you, please?” asked Isabel, smilingly.  When the maid was gone she added, “I always trust the maids that way!  They love to handle my pretty things,—­and who can blame them?—­and I let them whenever I can!”

They were still lingering over tea when Isabel heard her husband in the adjoining room, and went in, closing the door after her, to welcome him.

“He’s all dirty from tennis,” said the young wife, coming back and resuming her deep chair, with a smile, “and cross because I didn’t go and pick him up at the courts!”

“Oh, that was my fault!” Susan exclaimed, remembering that Isabel could not always be right, unless innocent persons would sometimes agree to be wrong.  Mrs. Furlong smiled composedly, a lovely vision in her loose lacy robe.

“Never mind, he’ll get over it!” she said and, accompanying Susan to one of the handsome guest-rooms, she added confidentially, “My dear, when a man’s first married, anything that keeps him from his wife makes him cross!  It’s no more your fault than mine!”