Won't you sit
down? I will put my letters away, and we will talk."
She began to collect the litter before her, laying the letters together
one by one with reverent care.
"Can I help?" asked Dinah timidly.
But she shook her head. "No, child, your hands must not touch them. They
are the ashes of my life."
An open box stood on the table. She drew it to her, and laid the letters
within it. Then she rose, and drew her guest to a lounge.
"We will sit here," she said. "Stumpy, why don't you smoke? Ah, the music
has stopped at last. It has been racking me all the evening. Yes, you
love it, of course. That is natural. I loved it once. It is always sweet
to those who dance. But to those who sit out--those who sit out--" Her
voice sank, and she said no more.
Dinah's hand slipped softly into hers. "I like sitting out too
sometimes," she said. "At least I like it now."
Isabel's eyes were upon her again. They looked at her with a kind of
incredulous wonder. After a moment she sighed.
"You would not like it for long, child. I am a prisoner. I sit in chains
while the world goes by. They are all hurrying forward so eager to get
on. But there is never any going on for me. I sit and watch--and watch."
"Surely we must all go forward somehow," said Dinah shyly.
"Surely," said Scott.
But Isabel only shook her head with dreary conviction. "Not the
prisoners," she said.
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