"You could not care less for him," Isobel once said, in a fit
of passion, "if he were a dog. I don't think you notice him more,
not one bit. He wanders about the house without anybody to give a
thought to him. I call it cruel, downright cruel."
"You are a wicked girl, Isobel," her mother said angrily, "a
wicked, violent girl, and I don't know what will become of you. It
is abominable of you to talk so, even if you are wicked enough to
get into a passion. What can we do for him that we don't do? What
is the use of talking to him when he never pays attention to what
we say, and is always moping. I am sure we get everything that we
think will please him, and he goes out for a walk with us every
day; what could possibly be done more for him?"
"A great deal more might be done for him," Isobel burst out. "You
might love him, and that would be everything to him. I don't believe
you and Helena love him, not one bit, not one tiny scrap."
"Go up to your room, Isobel, and remain there for the rest of the
day. You are a very bad girl. I shall write to Miss Virtue about
you; there must be something very wrong in her management of you,
or you would never be so passionate and insolent as you are."
But Isobel had not stopped to hear the last part of the sentence,
the door had slammed behind her. She was not many minutes alone
upstairs, for Robert soon followed her up, for when she was at home
he rarely left her side, watching her every look and gesture with
eyes as loving as those of a dog, and happy to sit on the ground
beside her, with his head leaning against her, for hours together.
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