"Threats?" she said, with quiet contempt. "When you make love, Mr.
Moody, you take strange ways of doing it. My conscience is easy. You may
try to frighten me, but you will not succeed. When you have recovered
your temper I will accept your excuses." She paused, and pointed to the
table. "There is the letter that you told me to leave for you when I
had sealed it," she went on. "I suppose you have her Ladyship's orders.
Isn't it time you began to think of obeying them?"
The contemptuous composure of her tone and manner seemed to act on Moody
with crushing effect. Without a word of answer, the unfortunate steward
took up the letter from the table. Without a word of answer, he walked
mechanically to the great door which opened on the staircase--turned on
the threshold to look at Isabel--waited a moment, pale and still--and
suddenly left the room.
That silent departure, that hopeless submission, impressed Isabel in
spite of herself. The sustaining sense of injury and insult sank, as it
were, from under her the moment she was alone. He had not been gone a
minute before she began to be sorry for him once more. The interview had
taught her nothing. She was neither old enough nor experienced enough
to understand the overwhelming revolution produced in a man's character
when he feels the passion of love for the first time in the maturity of
his life. If Moody had stolen a kiss at the first opportunity, she would
have resented the liberty he had taken with her; but she would have
thoroughly understood him.
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