Just because she had promised to marry him, when he
had both hands, they wanted her to go on with it, in spite of the fact
that he saw it was impossible.
Isabel sighed heavily. Nobody knew how keenly disappointed she was. She
had written to her few friends, told them about her engagement ring, the
plans made for her trousseau, the promised touring car, and the
brilliant social career that lay before her as the wife of a famous
violinist.
She pictured a triumphal tour from city to city, with the leaders of
fashion everywhere vying with each other in entertaining them--or, at
least, her. It would, of course, be necessary for Allison to play
occasionally in the evening and they would miss a great deal on that
account, but her days would be free, and she could cancel all her own
social obligations by complimentary tickets and suppers after the
concerts.
She had planned it all as she took lazy stitches in her dainty lingerie.
Aunt Francesca and Rose had been helping her, but the whole thing had
stopped suddenly. It seemed rather selfish of them not to go on with it,
for lingerie was always useful, and even though she should not marry
Allison, it was not at all improbable that she would marry someone else.
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