Isobel knew the whole truth.  I told her one evening ­the only one on which we two had dined out together alone.  I think that the weather had tempted me to this indulgence, which I had up to now so carefully avoided.  An early summer, with its long still evenings, had driven us out of doors.  The leaves which rustled over our heads, stirred by the faintest of evening breezes, made sweeter music for us than the violins of the more fashionable restaurants, and no carved ceiling could be so beautiful as the star-strewn sky above.  I omitted nothing.  I laid the whole situation before her.  When I had finished, she was very white and very quiet.

“And now that you have told me all this,” she asked, after a long silence, “does it remain for me to make my choice?  Even now I do not see my way at all clearly.  My relations do not want me.  Monsieur Feurgeres has left me some money.  Cannot I choose for myself how I shall spend my life?”

“I am afraid,” I answered, “that you may not.  For my part I am bound to say, Isobel, that I think Monsieur Feurgeres was right.  The letter of which I have told you, and which I found in my room, was written only a few hours before his death.  At such a time a man sees clearly.  You are not only yourself the Princess Isobel of Waldenburg, but you have a grandfather who has never recovered the loss of your mother and of you.  It was not his fault or by his wish that you were sent away from Waldenburg.  He has been deceived all the time by your aunt the Archduchess.  I think that it is your duty to go to him.”

“You will come with me?” she murmured anxiously.

“I shall not leave you,” I answered slowly, “until you are in his charge.  But afterwards ­”

“Well?” she interrupted anxiously.

“Afterwards,” I said, firmly keeping my eyes away from her and bracing myself for the effort, “our ways must lie apart, Isobel.  You are the daughter of one of Europe’s great families, you have a future which is almost a destiny.  You must fulfil your obligations.”

I saw the look in her face, and my heart ached for her.  I leaned forward in my chair.

“Dear child,” I said, “remember that this is what your mother would have wished.  Monsieur Feurgeres believed this before he died, and I think that no one else could tell so well what she would have desired for you.  Just now it may seem a little hard to go amongst strangers, to begin life all over again at your age.  But, after all, we must believe that it is the right thing.”

Her face was turned away from me, but I could see that her cheeks were pale and her lips trembling.  She said nothing, I fancied because she dared not trust her voice.  Above the tops of the trees the yellow moon was slowly rising; from a few yards away came all the varied clatter of the Boulevard.  And around us little groups and couples of people were gay ­gay with the invincible, imperishable gaiety of the Frenchman who dines.  The white-aproned waiters smiled as with deft hands they served a different course, or with a few wonderful touches removed all traces of the repast, and served coffee and liqueurs upon a spotless cloth.  And amidst it all I watched with aching heart Isobel, the child of to-day, the woman of to-morrow, as she fought her battle.

Her face seemed marble-white in the strange light, half natural, half artificial.  When she spoke at last she still kept her face turned away from me.

“The right thing!” she murmured.  “That is what I want to do.  I want to do what she would have wished.  But just now it seems a little hard.  I do not want to be a princess.  I do not want to be rich.  Monsieur Feurgeres has made me independent, and that is all I desire.  I would like to be free to live always my own life ­free like you and Allan, who paint and write and think, for I, too, would love so much to be an artist.  But it seems that all these things have been decided for me ­by you and Monsieur Feurgeres.  No,” she added quickly, “I know very well that you are right.  I am willing to do what Monsieur Feurgeres thinks that my mother would have wished.  I will go to my grandfather, and if he wishes it I will stay with him.  But there will be a condition!”

She turned at last and looked at me.  The lines of her mouth had altered, the carriage of her head, a subtle change in her tone, told their own story.  It was the Princess Isobel who spoke.

“I will not have my mother ignored or spoken of as one who forgot her rank and station.  These are all very well, but they are trifles compared with the great things of life.  I am proud of my mother’s courage, I am proud of the love which made his life, after she had gone, so beautiful.  I know that you understand me, Arnold, but I do not think that those others will.  They must bear with me, or I shall not stay.”

I looked at her wonderingly.  It seemed to me so strange that, under our very eyes, the child whom I had led by the hand through Covent Garden on that bright Spring morning should have developed in thought and mind under our own roof, and with so little conscious instruction, into a woman of perceptions and character.  Somewhere the seed of these things must have lain hidden.  One knows so little, after all, of those whom one knows best.

“It is a fair condition, Isobel,” I said.  “You are going into a world which is hedged about with conventions and prejudices.  The things which are so clear to you and to me, they may look at differently.  You must be received as your mother’s daughter, and not as the King’s granddaughter.”

She nodded gravely.  Then she leaned across the table and looked into my eyes.  Notwithstanding her pallor and her black dress, I was forced to realize what I ever forbade my thoughts to dwell upon ­her great and increasing beauty.  She looked into my eyes, and my heart stood still.

“Arnold,” she murmured, “shall you miss me?”

My heel dug into the turf beneath my foot.  My eyes fell from hers.  I dared not look at her.

“We shall all miss you so much,” I said gravely, “that life will never be the same again to us.  You made it beautiful for a little time, and your absence will be hard to bear.  I suppose we shall all turn to hard work,” I added, with an attempt at lightness.  “Allan will paint his great picture, Arthur will invent a new motor and make his fortune, and I shall write my immortal story.”

“The story,” she said, “which you would not show me?”

Show her!  How could I, when I knew that for one who read between the lines the story of my own suffering was there?  My secret had been hard enough to keep faithfully, even from her to whom the truth, had she ever divined it, must have seemed so incredible.

“That one, perhaps,” I answered lightly, “or the next!  Who can tell?  One is never a judge of one’s own work, you know.”

“Why would you not show me that story, Arnold?” she asked softly.

I met her eyes fixed upon me with a peculiar intentness.  I tried to escape them, but I could not.  It was impossible for me to lie to her.  My voice shook as I answered her.

“Don’t ask me, Isobel!” I said.  “We all make mistakes sometime, you know.  Not to show you that story when you asked me was one of mine.”

“If you had it here ?”

“If I had it here I would show it you,” I declared.

She sighed.  She did not seem altogether satisfied.

“Sometimes, Arnold,” she said thoughtfully, “you puzzle me very much.  You treat me always as though I were a child; you keep me at arm’s length always, as though there were between us some impassable barrier, as though it could never be possible for you to come into my world or for me to pass into yours.  I know that you are wiser and cleverer than I am, but I can learn.  I have been learning all the time.  Are we always to remain at this great distance?”

“Dear Isobel,” I answered, “you forget that I am more than twice your age.  You are eighteen, and I am thirty-four.  I cannot make myself young like you.  I cannot call back the years, however much I might wish to do so.  And for the rest, I have been your guardian.  I, a poor writer of no particular family and very meagre fortune, and you my ward, a princess standing at the opposite pole of life.  I have had to remember these things, Isobel.”

She leaned a little further across the table.  Again her eyes held mine, and I felt my heart beat like a boy’s at the touch of her soft white fingers as she laid her hand on mine.

“I wish,” she murmured, “oh, I wish ­”

“So we’ve found you at last, have we?”

Isobel’s speech was never ended.  Mabane and Arthur stood within a few feet of us, the former grave, the latter white and angry.  I rose slowly to my feet and held out my hand to Allan.

“I am glad to see you, Allan!” I said.

He looked first at my hand, and afterwards at me.  Then, with a sigh of relief, he took it and nearly wrung it off.

“And I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you both again!” he exclaimed.  “We’ve heard strange stories ­or rather Arthur has ­from his friend Lady Delahaye, and at last we decided to come over and find out all about it for ourselves.  Don’t take any notice of Arthur,” he added under his breath, “he’s not quite himself.”

Arthur was standing with his back to me, talking to Isobel.  Certainly her welcome was flattering enough.  I realized with a sudden gravity that I had not heard her laugh like this since she had been in England.  Arthur continued talking in a low, earnest tone.

“How did you find us?” I asked Allan.

“We called at the Rue de St. Antoine,” he answered.  “The housekeeper said that she had heard you talk about dining at one of these places.  Arnold?”

“Well?”

“Why are you and Isobel staying on in Paris?”

“First of all,” I answered promptly, “we had to stay for the funeral, and now there are some legal formalities which cannot be finished until to-morrow.  I am Monsieur Feurgeres’ executor, Allan, and he has left me twenty thousand pounds.  Isobel has the rest.”

“I am delighted, old chap,” Mabane declared heartily.  “In fact, I’ll drink your health.”

I called a waiter and ordered liqueurs.  Arthur took his with an ill grace, and he still avoided any direct speech with me.  Isobel was evidently uneasy, and looked at me once or twice as though anxious that I should break up their tete-a-tete.  But when I had paid the bill and we rose to go, Allan passed his arm through mine, and I was forced to let the two go on.

“Let the boy have his chance,” Allan said, pausing a little as we turned into the Boulevard.  “He’s in such a state that he won’t listen to reason only from her.”

“But,” I protested, “it is absurd for him to speak to her.  Does he know who she is?  The Princess Isobel of Waldenburg!  Their little kingdom is small enough, but they play at royalty there.”

Allan nodded.

“He knows.  But he’s a good-looking boy, and the girls have spoilt him a little.  He has an idea that she cares for him.”

“Impossible!” I declared, sharply.

“No!  Not impossible!” Allan answered, shaking his head.  “They have been together a great deal, you must remember, and Arthur can be a very delightful companion when he chooses.  No, it isn’t impossible, Arnold.”

I shook my head.

“Isobel’s future is already arranged,” I said.  “In three days’ time I am taking her to her grandfather.  If he receives her, as I believe that he will receive her, she will pass out of our lives as easily as she came into them.  She will marry a grand duke, perhaps even a petty king.  She will be plunged into all manner of excitements and gaiety.  Her years with us will never be mentioned at Court.  She herself will soon learn to look back on them as a quaint episode.”

“You do not believe it, Arnold?” Mabane declared scornfully.

“Heaven only knows what I believe,” I answered, with a little burst of bitterness.  “Look at that!”

We had reached the Rue de St. Antoine.  Isobel stood in the doorway at the apartments waiting for us.  But Arthur had already disappeared.