his only link with the outside world, the outside world in this case being London, and he was eagerly awaiting news from there, yet at the same time afraid of what he might hear.
The news that he was anxious to hear did not concern the political situation of the moment, but the gossip that surrounded the woman who was still his wife, and who would remain so until one of them died.
For he considered the very thought of divorce evil. Bellingham's letter of three days before had conveyed to him the disturbing fact that his wife had dared to return to town, and this time with an Italian much older than herself who bore the title of Count and who presumably had unlimited wealth.
The situation that now troubled him was this: If Bellingham brought him the news that his wife was aiming to set up an establishment in London, he could not possibly take up residence there; in which case what was he going to do with those two along the corridor?
The dinner was almost at an end. It had begun with Flemish soup, followed by turbot and fried smelts, after which came roast haunch of venison with vegetables. This in turn was followed by roast grouse and the meal ended with charlotte russe of which Isabelle had two helpings.
She was very fond of puddings; in fact she was very fond of food altogether, yet no matter what amount she ate it did not show itself in flesh, for although seventeen in three days' time, her hips looked nonexistent and her chest almost as flat as her brother's.
As she began her second helping of pudding she made an almost imperceptible movement with her eyelid towards her brother sitting opposite, then slanted her eyes ceiling wise for a second, which caused him to cough and put his hand to his mouth.
No one would have taken the brother and sister for twins for they were quite unlike each other in looks, nor did either show any resemblance to the man sitting at the head of the table, nor would there have been any resemblance to their mother had she been present, dive Fischel, it was said, took after his maternal great-grandmother and was of unusual fairness, while Isabelle looked the image of her paternal great grandfather She only had to stand in the gallery and look at the three portraits of that notorious gentleman and she saw herself at the ages of twenty, thirty, and forty. Since she had been a child, she had taken a secret pride in resembling her great-grandfather, and only she knew that the resemblance was not in her exterior alone. Over the years she had gotten into the habit of talking to the portrait of the elegantly dressed youth and at times led herself to believe that the full sensual lips were answering her.
Only this morning, after the wearisome ritual of prayers and breakfast, she had stood in the gallery and said to the bold, dark face, with its nose seeming to protrude out of the canvas, "I'm weary; I'll erupt if I don't get away from here. There's another month before I go to town. Heidelberg and Aunt Helen had its drawbacks but it was a wild life compared with this. What am I going to do? " She had watched the lips move and she had imagined a deep, throaty voice saying, " Live! " And she had answered it by asking, " But how? " And to this the portrait had only smiled.
Her home she considered to be a cross between a monastery and a convent where her father ruled like a prior, and the housekeeper, Mrs.
Hatton, a mother superior. She had voiced this to her brother as a rather clever quip.
She didn't like her father; but then she liked so few people. She often thought about this, her dislike of people. There was only one person in the wide world for whom she had any affection, and that was Clive;
yet even towards him her feelings were mixed. She could say that she loved him, yet at the same time she hated him because he was so ineffectual. She, like her father, thought their sexes had gotten mixed up--she should have been the man; she was the vibrant one.
She looked at her brother now. She could
The news that he was anxious to hear did not concern the political situation of the moment, but the gossip that surrounded the woman who was still his wife, and who would remain so until one of them died.
For he considered the very thought of divorce evil. Bellingham's letter of three days before had conveyed to him the disturbing fact that his wife had dared to return to town, and this time with an Italian much older than herself who bore the title of Count and who presumably had unlimited wealth.
The situation that now troubled him was this: If Bellingham brought him the news that his wife was aiming to set up an establishment in London, he could not possibly take up residence there; in which case what was he going to do with those two along the corridor?
The dinner was almost at an end. It had begun with Flemish soup, followed by turbot and fried smelts, after which came roast haunch of venison with vegetables. This in turn was followed by roast grouse and the meal ended with charlotte russe of which Isabelle had two helpings.
She was very fond of puddings; in fact she was very fond of food altogether, yet no matter what amount she ate it did not show itself in flesh, for although seventeen in three days' time, her hips looked nonexistent and her chest almost as flat as her brother's.
As she began her second helping of pudding she made an almost imperceptible movement with her eyelid towards her brother sitting opposite, then slanted her eyes ceiling wise for a second, which caused him to cough and put his hand to his mouth.
No one would have taken the brother and sister for twins for they were quite unlike each other in looks, nor did either show any resemblance to the man sitting at the head of the table, nor would there have been any resemblance to their mother had she been present, dive Fischel, it was said, took after his maternal great-grandmother and was of unusual fairness, while Isabelle looked the image of her paternal great grandfather She only had to stand in the gallery and look at the three portraits of that notorious gentleman and she saw herself at the ages of twenty, thirty, and forty. Since she had been a child, she had taken a secret pride in resembling her great-grandfather, and only she knew that the resemblance was not in her exterior alone. Over the years she had gotten into the habit of talking to the portrait of the elegantly dressed youth and at times led herself to believe that the full sensual lips were answering her.
Only this morning, after the wearisome ritual of prayers and breakfast, she had stood in the gallery and said to the bold, dark face, with its nose seeming to protrude out of the canvas, "I'm weary; I'll erupt if I don't get away from here. There's another month before I go to town. Heidelberg and Aunt Helen had its drawbacks but it was a wild life compared with this. What am I going to do? " She had watched the lips move and she had imagined a deep, throaty voice saying, " Live! " And she had answered it by asking, " But how? " And to this the portrait had only smiled.
Her home she considered to be a cross between a monastery and a convent where her father ruled like a prior, and the housekeeper, Mrs.
Hatton, a mother superior. She had voiced this to her brother as a rather clever quip.
She didn't like her father; but then she liked so few people. She often thought about this, her dislike of people. There was only one person in the wide world for whom she had any affection, and that was Clive;
yet even towards him her feelings were mixed. She could say that she loved him, yet at the same time she hated him because he was so ineffectual. She, like her father, thought their sexes had gotten mixed up--she should have been the man; she was the vibrant one.
She looked at her brother now. She could
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