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‘It will depend on what you call life!’ Mr. Rosier effec-
tively said. ‘She won’t enjoy being tortured.’
‘There’ll be nothing of that.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. She knows what she’s about. You’ll
see.’
‘I think she does, and she’ll never disobey her father. But
she’s coming back to me,’ Isabel added, ‘and I must beg you
to go away.’
Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the
arm of her cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in
the face. Then he walked away, holding up his head; and the
manner in which he achieved this sacrifice to expediency
convinced Isabel he was very much in love.
Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking
perfectly fresh and cool after this exercise, waited a moment
and then took back her bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw
she was counting the flowers; whereupon she said to herself
that decidedly there were deeper forces at play than she had
recognized. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she said
nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner,
after he had made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor,
the rare misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel
was sure, however, she had discovered her lover to have ab-
stracted a flower; though this knowledge was not needed to
account for the dutiful grace with which she responded to
the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under
acute constraint was part of a larger system. She was again
led forth by a flushed young man, this time carrying her
bouquet; and she had not been absent many minutes when

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