CHAPTER SEVEN
Isabella came slowly into the library where Hugo Waltham was dealing with a large pile of accounts.
She carried in her hands a number of invitation cards which her eyes were scanning as she entered.
She smiled as Hugo rose and waved him to his seat. She was looking very lovely this morning. She had not yet made her toilette and wore a muslin wrap trimmed with Venetian lace. Her hair, instead of being dressed in an elaborate fashion, was loose and unpowdered, its golden curls caught with a deep blue ribbon that echoed the ribbons at her waist.
She seated herself by the window and the sunshine turned her hair into an aureole of living gold and her eyes, when she lifted them to Hugo’s face, were as bright and gay as the sunbeams glittering almost blindingly on the silver ink
