Left to herself, Isabel walked back and forth idly, greatly allured by
the forbidden piano. She looked over, carelessly, the pile of violin
music Allison had left there. Some of the sheets were torn and had been
pasted together, all were marked in pencil with hieroglyphics, and most
of them were stamped, in purple, "Allison Kent," with a Berlin or Paris
address written in below.

Isabel had met very few men, in the course of her twenty years. For this
reason, possibly, she remembered every detail of the two weeks she had
spent at Aunt Francesca's and the hours with Allison, on the veranda,
when he chose to amuse himself with the pretty, credulous child. It
seemed odd to have him coming to the house again, though, unless he came
to dinner, he usually spent the time playing, to Rose's accompaniment.
She had not seen him alone.

She surveyed herself in the long, gilt-framed mirror, and was well
pleased with the image of youth and beauty the mirror gave back. The
bell rang and she pinned up a stray lock carefully. It was probably
someone to see Aunt Francesca, but there was a pleasing doubt. It might
be the twins, though she had not returned their call.

Presently Allison came in, his cheeks glowing from his long walk in the
cold. "Silver Girl," he smiled, "where are the spangles, and are you
alone?"

"The spangles are upstairs waiting for candlelight," answered Isabel, as
he took her small, cool hand, "and I'm very much alone--or was."

"Where are the others?"