Yes, she was forty-one, although neither she nor her mirror admitted it readily.  Anthony, she thought, must realize it.  He must realize that his feeling for her was unthinkable, not to say absurd.  It had taken her by surprise, this last conquest.  She had known the boy only a few weeks.  Ward had brought him home for a visit, at Easter, but Isabelle, besides admiring his unusual beauty and identifying him with the Pope fortune, had paid him small attention.  She had been absorbed then in the wretched conclusion of the Foster affair.  Derrick Foster had been distressing and annoying her unmercifully.  After the warm and delightful friendship of several months, after luncheons and teas, opera and concerts in the greatest harmony, Derrick Foster had had the daring, the impudence, to imply—­to insinuate—­

Well, Isabelle had gotten rid of him, although she could not yet think of him without scarlet colour in her cheeks.  And it had been on a particularly trying afternoon, when the unshed tears of anger and hurt pride had been making her fine eyes heavier and more mysterious than usual, that this nice boy, this handsome friend of Ward, had gone riding with her, and had shown such charming sympathy for her dark mood.  They had had tea at the Country Club, and Tony, as she had begun at once to call him, had been wonderfully amusing and soothing.  Isabelle, when they came back to the house, had turned impulsively in the hall, had laid her small hand, in its dashing gauntlet, upon his big shoulder.

“You’ve carried me over an ugly bog, Little Boy!” she had said.  “I like you—­such a lot!”

That was six weeks ago, but in those short six weeks the little boy that she had patronized had entirely upset her preconceived ideas of him.  He was young, and he was absurd, but he did not know it, and Isabelle began to feel the difficulty of keeping the whole world from discovering it before he did.  He made no secret of his passion.  He came straight to her in any company; he never looked at anybody else.  The young girls to whom she introduced him bored him, he was rude to them.  To her own daughter Nina, seventeen years old, his attitude was almost paternal; he ignored Ward as if their friendship had never been.  Toward Richard Carter, who was pleasantly hospitable toward the lad, he showed an icy and trembling politeness.

Isabelle saw now that she had made a mistake.  She should have killed this affair at the very beginning.  Tony was not like the older men, willing to play the game with just a little scorching of fingers.  Appearances meant nothing to Tony, and she had let the play go too far now to convince him that she did not return something of his feeling.

Indeed, to her own amazement, his fire kindled fire in return.  When he was not at Crownlands she could laugh at him, even though her thoughts were full of him.  But when he was there, life to her was more radiant, more full, more glowing with colour and fragrance.  The books he touched, the chair he had at breakfast, his young, lithe body in its golfing knickerbockers, or his sleek black head above the dull black of evening wear, haunted her oddly.  He troubled her, but she had neither quite the power nor quite the desire to banish him.