XIV
THE THIRTIETH OF JUNE
Dinner that night had been rather a silent affair at Kent's, as well as
at Madame Bernard's. Being absorbed in his own thoughts, Allison did not
realise how unsociable he was, nor that the old man across the table
from him perceived that they had reached the beginning of the end.
When Allison spoke, it was always of Isabel. Idealised in her lover's
sight, she stood before him as the one "perfect woman, nobly planned,"
predestined, through countless ages, to be his mate. Colonel Kent merely
agreed with him in monosyllables until Allison became conscious that his
father did not wholly share his enthusiasm.
"I wish you knew her, Dad," he said, regretfully. "You'll love her when
you do."
"I'm willing to," answered the Colonel, shortly. "I called on her this
afternoon," he added, after a brief pause.
Allison's face illumined. "Was she there? Did you see her?"
"Yes."
"Isn't she the loveliest thing that was ever made?"
"I'm not prepared to go as far as that," smiled the Colonel, "but she is
certainly a very pretty girl.
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