CHAPTER 23Miss Isabel Doyle’s room was oddly bare, compared with the rest of that house. It had a few pieces of old furniture in it, but not the same kind that were downstairs by any manner of means. Nor were there any pictures like the ones downstairs. There were a couple of undistinguished water colors, and a pencil sketch of herself when she was a really very lovely young girl. Otherwise nothing but photographs, rather absurd looking now that hair styles for women and collar and hair styles for men have changed so much.
Miss Isabel herself was sitting in an old hickory rocker staring into the empty fireplace. She’d been writing, and she put down her pen as I came in and looked up. There was a little stack of letters on the table at her elbow, stamped with the old pink two-cent Washingt
