"Well, we'll sift that matter some other time," said Owen
impatiently. "There are other things to think of now. I must
see Phillippa."
"I'll manage it for you," I said eagerly; but, just as I spoke,
the door opened and Isabella and Mark came in. Never shall I
forget the look on Isabella's face. I almost felt sorry for her.
She turned sickly yellow and her eyes went wild; they were
looking at the downfall of all her schemes and hopes. I didn't
look at Mark Foster, at first, and, when I did, there wasn't
anything to see. His face was just as sallow and wooden as ever;
he looked undersized and common beside Owen. Nobody'd ever have
picked him out for a bridegroom.
Owen spoke first.
"I want to see Phillippa," he said, as if it were but yesterday
that he had gone away.
All Isabella's smoothness and policy had dropped away from her,
and the real woman stood there, plotting and unscrupulous, as I'd
always know her.
"You can't see her," she said desperate-like. "She doesn't want
to see you. You went and left her and never wrote, and she knew
you weren't worth fretting over, and she has learned to care for
a better man."
"I DID write and I think you know that better than most folks,"
said Owen, trying hard to speak quiet. "As for the rest, I'm not
going to discuss it with you. When I hear from Phillippa's own
lips that she cares for another man I'll believe it--and not
before.
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