She sat idle. Stirring pepper boughs roused her from revery. She looked above at swaying branches, only to remember how admirably Reginald's father had waited for everything. Half stoical force, which described the man's power during a period of successful railroading, had always restrained him. When he died, his unsoiled record and splendid business success had both been achieved through the mastery of waiting. She smiled. The curve of her lips charmed. She was yet undecided. Yes, the man she married had not been impatient. He had waited three months for the one word she would not say. At last, when she became his wife, he still waited for something she could never give him. He did not complain. Again pepper branches trembled, and a shower of tiny berries began to fall. Commotion ensued among leaves, until a dark, slender mocker shot out, onto the back of Reginald's fox terrier. Suspicion, rage, shrieked in the bird's shrill war cry. The beleaguered dog retreated beneath Isabel's chair. The enemy flew off, but came back, finally to settle just below the cherished nest which his excitement had duly located. Egotism and pride made plain his secret.
Isabel laughed, as she patted the dog crouching at her feet. "Poor fellow!" she said. "You surely had no thought to harm domestic prospects." Then through the garden her boy rushed headlong, a toy spade swung recklessly, as Maggie the nurse pursued. Jewels of moisture glistened on the child's warm forehead. His cheeks glowed, the violet of his eyes shone flowerlike. He flung himself into waiting, outstretched arms. "O mudder dear!" he cried. "I just love you so, it most makes me cry." The joy of his baby passion, the depths reserved for years to come, seemed the expression of another, a stronger will; and Isabel knew that she had made ready her answer to Philip Barry.
Shortly before five Isabel heard the horn of the returning car. She ran to a mirror and gazed at her reflection with new interest, for after useless struggle with Fate she had decided to let Philip Barry cross the water. The telegram had been sent to New York and soon her message would vibrate over the Atlantic cable. Early in the afternoon she had overhauled gowns not intended to be worn until several months later. Her changed toilet was a matter of significance, almost a challenge to her aunt, who would readily construe a transformation from half mourning to violet crepe and amethysts. She listened to the horn, dreading an ordeal. Fortunately, intuitions concerning Mrs. Grace always developed her own mastery. And to-day Isabel ignored the aunt's startled expression and crude outcry, as she hastened on to meet arriving guests.