Isabelle’s dÉbut as dramatist and actress was much discussed and laughed over in the colony. Her pranks had long been a favourite topic, but this last one marked her as a real personality.

“Isabelle,” Martin Christiansen said to her, a day or so after the performance, “you gave me so much pleasure with your interpretation of Mr.Dickens’s work, that I want to do something for your pleasure.”

“Do you?” said Isabelle, enthusiastically.

“Theatrical stars are so temperamental, I scarcely know what to suggest. What does a leading lady and producer like to do in her moments of idle ease?”

It was a great opportunity, and Isabelle considered it at length.

“I should like to go bathing on the club beach, and have lunch afterwards on the club porch.”

“Most reasonable of Leading Ladies, what day would suit you best?”

“To-morrow”—promptly.

“Good. Shall we say at eleven? I will give myself the honour of coming for you.”

“You ask Max to let me go, will you?”

“With pleasure. Shall we ask the other members of your company, too? Does a star permit the company to eat below the salt?”

“Oh no, don’t let’s have them—just you and me.”

“Most flattering. I would prefer that.”

“You won’t ask the Wallys?”

“You refer to your parents?”

She nodded.

“This is your party—you may ask the guests,” he laughed.

So it was decided, and Christiansen broke the news to her mother.

“I think she should have a chaperon. You might ask me.”

“She was very explicit that the party was to be a tÊte-À-tÊte.”

“She’d never ask me,” laughed her mother.

“Aren’t you friendly?”—curiously.

“Oh, not at all.”

The next morning Max honoured Miss Watts and Isabelle with an unexpected call.

“What is she going to wear, Miss Watts?” she inquired.

“I’m going to wear my riding clothes,” announced Isabelle.

“How ridiculous! You’re going in a motor, not on a horse.”

“I don’t care. I look better in my riding clothes.”

“You’ll put on a white organdie frock and a big hat.”

“I won’t! I hate those girl-things! They look silly on me.”

“All children of your age wear white dresses and pink sashes, Isabelle,” interpolated Miss Watts.

“Well, I’m not a pink-sash child!” quoth Isabelle, with one of her flashes of insight.

“Oh, well, Miss Watts, let her go in her riding boots. If she wants to make a laughing-stock of herself, let her! Poor Mr.Christiansen will be sorry he ever asked her!” said Mrs.Bryce.

“Very well. I’ll wear a white linen dress, with a black belt, and my black hat,” announced the girl.

“Chaste, but not gaudy,” laughed her mother, as she sauntered from the room.

When she was finally dressed Isabelle walked to a long mirror and surveyed herself at length. Her slim, pretty legs in their black silk stockings caught her eye.

“Don’t you think I have nice legs?” she inquired of Miss Watts.

“Um—rather. They are serviceable at least.”

The party was a marked success. A great many people were bathing, which always made it exciting. They went out to the raft and Christiansen and some other men took turns in throwing her off. It was perfect for Isabelle. Then, afterward, all the tables were full on the club veranda, when Mr.Christiansen led his guest to a two-chair table, marked “reserved.” Everybody smiled and nodded at them. She saw Wally and Max cross the room grinning at her. But she bore herself with great dignity, and it seemed to her that life held nothing more, when Christiansen seated her. There was a tiny, old-fashioned bouquet at her plate.

“Is this for me?” she inquired.

“Yes. My offering on the day of your triumph was so inadequate, I wanted to do better to-day. By the way, I ordered the lunch. I trust you do not mind.”

“Oh, no. That’s all right,” she replied graciously.

“It seems to me you are looking very fine to-day.”

She looked at him gravely.

“I had an awful time about my clothes,” she confessed. “Max wanted me to wear a party dress and a sweety hat——”

“What is a sweety hat?” he inquired with interest.

“Oh, you know the kind—floppy, with cherries on it, and everybody says: ‘Oh, isn’t she sweet?’”

Her host smiled.

“You object to being thought sweet?”

“Yes. I’m not that kind of a child.”

“What kind of a child are you, Isabelle?”

“I’m plain, but I’ve got a great line of talk,” was her unexpected answer.

“A witty tongue is worth all the pretty faces in the world,” laughed Christiansen. “But I wouldn’t call you so plain.”

“I look very well in my riding clothes.”

“Do you?”

“Have you seen me in them?”

“No, I regret to say.”

“Well, you must.”

“Thank you. I take it that you did not accept your mother’s advice upon your costume?”

“Oh, no. I never do. Parents have such silly ideas, don’t you think?”

“I suppose they do, poor things.”

“You have to have them, of course”—politely.

“In this badly arranged world,” he admitted.

“So many people are having babies this summer,” she remarked.

“Are they, indeed?”

“Oh, yes. The Hunters and the Reillys, both have them.”

“Do I know the Reillys?”

“He is the gardener at The Beeches. Patsy is my best friend.”

“Is he a member of your company?”

“Oh, yes. He was away when we did ‘The Tale of Two Cities.’ He speaks rather Irishly, but he’s a good actor.”

“Your leading man seemed to have a comedy talent.”

“Tommy Page? He’s a terrible fool, but we had to have him. There never are enough boys to go round for the parts.”

“So often happens in summer resorts,” he agreed. “Why not have a company of Amazons and disdain the weaker sex?”

“You mean all girls?”

“The Amazons were, you know.”

“They fuss so, and get mad. They always want to play the best parts. With boys, you can just settle them.”

“You nearly settled poor Tommy Page on the guillotine,” he laughed.

“He nearly spoiled everything, the poor coward. He couldn’t stand a little pain.”

“Peculiar to our sex, Isabelle; not Tommy’s fault, strictly speaking.”

“He’ll never get another good part,” she said firmly.

They were just finishing their ice cream, chatting amiably, when Wally came to their table.

“Hello,” he remarked.

Isabelle bowed.

“Hope I don’t interrupt?” he added.

“Not at all. Won’t you sit down?”

“No, thanks. Just ran over to say that we’ll take the kid off your hands after lunch.”

“Oh, don’t bother——”

“Certainly we will. The car is going back in ten minutes with Max, and she can go along.”

Isabelle could have cried with rage. As it was she swallowed hard, and when Christiansen said: “Is that agreeable to you, Isabelle?” she nodded assent, but the look she cast at Wally might have assassinated him. He, blissfully unaware of it, sauntered away.

“Don’t hurry. Wouldn’t you like some more ice cream?” her host suggested.

“Yes, thank you.”

She did not really want it, but it might serve to delay the hated departure. The car might go without her, and Christiansen would then take her home. She dawdled over the second ice cream, chatting feverishly to prevent his suspecting her plan. But the end came, as the end needs must, and on the veranda they found her mother waiting.

“If she has been eating all this time, you must be bankrupt,” she laughed as they joined her.

“Our conversation absorbed considerable time, didn’t it, Isabelle?”

“Yes”—gravely.

“Did you behave yourself?” inquired her mother.

“Perfectly,” Christiansen hastened to say.

“Well, make your manners and get into the car,” ordered her parent.

Christiansen leaned over her hand gallantly.

“Thank you for giving me so much pleasure,” he said in a confidential tone.

“Thank you. I loved it,” she whispered ardently.

On the way home her mother glanced at her.

“Have a good time?”

“You and Wally spoiled it!”—hotly.

“What did we do?”

“Treating me like a infunt!”

“Which you are,” retorted her mother.

Later, in talking it over with Miss Watts, Isabelle said:

“Mr.Christiansen is my ideal. He thinks he would not call me very plain,” she added. Then, “Miss Watts, what is an Amazon?”

“The Amazon is a river.”

“But he said a comp’ny of Amazons.”

“Oh, they were women warriors,” instructed the teacher, and expounded the subject at some length.

“What did they wear?” demanded Isabelle.

“We’ll look up some pictures of them and find out.”

“Riding clothes would do,” mused Isabelle.

“Nicely, I should say.”

The next day she organized the Isabelle Amazons. They were only four in number, counting Nancy Holt, who was under size, but they drilled and hunted and rode to battle in the wake of their peerless leader. They met imaginary foes. They challenged Tommy Page and Teddy Horton to mortal combat, and put them to flight. It was a wonderful game, and Isabelle thrilled to think that it was “her ideal” who had suggested it.

“When am I going to entertain Mr.Christiansen?” she asked her mother.

“You entertain him?”

“Certainly. He had me to lunch, didn’t he?”

Mrs.Bryce laughed.

“I’m having a house party over the week end and he is coming.”

“This week end?”

“Yes. Your beau arrives on the noon train Saturday.”

“But I am spending the day with the Hunters Saturday,” the child protested.

“I can’t help that,” replied her parent.

“May I come down to dinner Saturday night?”

“Certainly not.”

“Can’t I come in with the cocktails, and stay till you go to the dining room?”

“Nobody wants you under foot.”

“He’s my friend just as much as he is yours!” blazed Isabelle.

“You can see him at tea.”

“With everybody around? I have something private to tell him.”

“What, pray?”

“About Amazons.”

“Well, we’ll not have Amazons with the cocktails, I can tell you that,” said her mother with finality.

Isabelle brooded over the matter until the end of the week. She tried to get out of the day with Margie Hunter, but Mrs.Bryce was glad to be rid of her and forced her to go. She ordered Miss Watts not to go after her until half past five, when tea would be safely over.

Isabelle composed a note of explanation and left it on the bureau in the room which Christiansen was to occupy.

Dear Friend:

Because of others, and Margie Hunter’s mother I cannot meet you at the station. I have to spend the day with old Margie Hunter. I have organized the Amazons, as you said, and we are strong and true, in riding breeches. I have a plan, but don’t tell Max.

Your loving friend,

Isabelle Bryce.