If Max and Wally had ever shown one grain of intelligence in regard to Isabelle they never would have taken her to this big, fashionable mountain inn where her field of adventure was so greatly enlarged. But they never had shown any discrimination in regard to her, so nothing could be expected of them at this stage.

Isabelle was a marked figure wherever she went now. She had forcibly taken over the matter of her own wardrobe in the spring of this year. Max had never made a success of it because she never gave any study to the girl’s points; she dismissed her as plain, and bought her things with indifference.

Now Isabelle had a flair for the odd, and she understood her own limitations and her own style. She was small, and slim as a reed, without being bony. She had what she called “hair-coloured” hair, and an odd face—wide between the eyes, but a perfect oval in shape. Her eyes were her only beauty.

Fluffy, young-girl clothes merely accentuated her lack of youthful prettiness. With unerring instinct as a child, she had chosen her riding clothes to show off in. Now these same clothes formed the basis of her system. By day she was always in tailored frocks of the strictest simplicity. They were linen, or silk, or wool, made after the same model. Slim, tight skirt; slim, fitted coat; sailor hat, and strange boots, which she had made to order after her own design. They were like short riding boots, pulled on and crumpled over the instep like a glove. She was striking, chic, a personality.

“By Jove! Isabelle gets herself up smartly, Max,” commented Wally, soon after their arrival at the inn. Their daughter walked toward them, with every eye on the long piazza following in her wake.

“It is too outrÉe, but it is effective. She knows everybody looks at her, she intends they shall, but look how the monkey carries it off,” laughed Max, struck into a sort of admiration.

“What’s doing with you to-day, my noble parents?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What are you doing?” Wally answered.

“I’m going to ride. I can’t stand this clack-clatter,” she said, indicating the groups on the veranda. “Dull lot, don’t you think?”

“Have you met any one yet?” inquired her mother.

“Don’t have to. I know what they are by just looking at them.”

“L’enfant prodige!” jeered Max.

A tall, very fine-looking man in riding togs passed them, with a swift look at Isabelle.

“That’s Cartel, isn’t it?” Wally asked.

“The actor man?” said Max, looking after him.

“Actor-manager he calls himself now. Good-looking brute, isn’t he?” answered Wally, idly.

Isabelle seemed oblivious to the whole incident but privately she marked Sidney Cartel as her own. She went off, shortly, to change.

“Why don’t you ride with her, Wally? She oughtn’t to go off around these mountains alone.”

“Too hot. She can take care of herself.”

“Which way did Mr.Cartel go?” Isabelle inquired of the stable groom who mounted her.

“Sunrise Trail, Miss,” he answered.

Isabelle started off for Sunrise Trail, with the directness of purpose which marked all her actions. It was some time before she caught sight of him, and to her annoyance she saw he was with a party of friends. Whenever the trail permitted he rode beside a certain woman—leaning toward her with marked devotion. Isabelle brought up the rear of the procession. The others became aware of her, evidently commented on her. Mr.Cartel looked back frequently.

When Isabelle came to a place wide enough to turn she retraced her steps. She went back to the inn determined to discover who Mr.Cartel’s special companion was. The groom furnished it, for a price:

“Mrs.Andrews was with him, Miss. She mostly is.”

Saturday night was the weekly hop, the most festive occasion of the week. Max had given Isabelle orders that she could not sit up for dances, as she was still a schoolgirl. The girl made no protest.

“Hops don’t interest me,” she said, indifferently.

After dinner she took a few turns on the piazza with Wally before she went to bed. She wore an odd, white crÊpe frock, which hung very close. Her hair was bound round her head like a cap.

“Let’s sneak in and have the first dance together,” said Wally; “Max has a beau.”

“All right; then I’ll skip,” agreed Isabelle.

With the first strains of music they swung into a waltz. They danced well, and enjoyed it.

“Go to bed,” ordered Max as she passed them.

Isabelle saw Mr.Cartel idly glance in, then at sight of her he came to the door and watched them.

“Some dance, Miss Bryce. Much obliged. Sorry you have to leave us,” said Wally as the dance was over.

Cartel strolled off down the hall, and a few seconds later she followed him. She saw him saunter into one of the many little rooms used for cards, or tea. She noticed it was not lighted and, on the impulse of the moment, she stepped in after him.

In a second she was caught and lifted in strong arms. She was kissed again and again, while he said laughingly:

“You little devil, you came after all.”

“I wonder who you are,” said Isabelle sweetly, “and who you think I am.”

“Thunder!” said Mr.Cartel, holding her off, and trying to peer at her.

“There must be some mistake,” Isabelle suggested. “I will ask you to stand just where you are, until I have time to get into the elevator. That will save us both any embarrassment.”

“But I don’t understand,” he mumbled. “I do beg your pardon, I thought——”

“Give me three minutes; and I rely on you not to peep into the hall,” she said, with a chuckle. And was gone, leaving the actor-manager more at a loss than such events usually found him.

Now whether Mr.Cartel peeped or not, the next day he recalled a previous meeting with Wally, and asked to be presented to his daughter.

“Haven’t we met before, Miss Bryce?” he asked, giving her a very special look.

“No,” she replied, with the faintest suspicion of a taunt in her tone.

“I was under the impression that we had.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t forget.”

“Are you enjoying yourself here?”

“Not especially.”

“What do you enjoy, Miss Bryce?”

“Excitement.”

“Couldn’t we find you some?”

“You might,” with the slightest accent on the pronoun.

“Let’s try,” he countered.

From that moment he devoted himself to the “little Bryce girl.” He rode with her, walked with her, talked with her, roared with amusement over her diablerie, until all tongues clacked about it. Mrs.Andrews left, in a huff.

“You’ve got to stop it, Wally,” Max ordered. “Every one is talking.”

“How can I stop it? You never should have brought her here.”

“Well, I’m not going to leave because she makes a fool of herself, so you can just take a hand.”

About this time a group of enthusiasts decided to get up an entertainment. With fear and trembling they asked the great actor to take part.

“How would you like to act a play with me, Cricket?” he asked her, in the tone of a god condescending to mortal.

“It would amuse me,” she replied.

He laughed.

“This to the great Cartel!” said he, modestly. “Do you know that the finest actresses in America esteem it a privilege to act with me?”

She grinned.

“There are women in this hotel who would give their eyes for the chance,” he added.

“I need my eyes for seeing my way about,” she drawled.

Well as she managed him she was greatly excited at the prospect of acting with him. She had a dreadful row with Max and Wally on the subject, but she won out, and the announcement was made that the great man would put on a Shaw playlet, assisted by the “little Bryce girl.”

There followed days of rehearsal and preparation, during which Mr. Cartel tried to impress his amateur leading lady, and succeeded not at all.

“That’s not the way to do it!” he thundered at her repeatedly.

“All right. But that’s the way I have to do it. If I’m going to be this woman, I have to be her my way, not yours.”

So the impudent little baggage faced him out, on his own ground; and he was forced to admit to himself that, crude as she was, she managed effects.

“You might be able to act some day,” he said to her on an occasion.

“Give me a job, and let me try.”

“You mean it?”

“Certainly.”

“But your parents?”

“They’d howl—and give in. They always do.”

“H’m—well, we’ll see.”

The great night came. Needless to say that the Shaw playlet and the brilliant Cartel were the events of the occasion. Isabelle was by no means obliterated in his shadow. She made a very considerable impression. There was a sort of fire about her. Her lines were read, not recited; and Shaw is the acid test for the amateur. The performance received an ovation.

“You were quite interesting,” Cartel said, sparingly—inspecting her with half-closed, speculative eyes.

“Do I get my job?” she inquired.

Later, he spoke to her parents about her talent.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t tell her,” urged her mother.

“You wouldn’t let me take her for a season?” he inquired.

“I should say not!” replied Mrs.Bryce, with emphasis.

The fuss that was made over the girl was enough to turn her head completely.

“We’ve got to take her away, that’s all,” said Wally, a day or two later.

“Where?” inquired Max, irritated to brevity.

“I don’t know. She gets into trouble wherever she goes. We might open The Beeches.”

“Well, we won’t.”

In the meantime Isabelle asked Cartel daily about a job in his company.

“Nothing doing without your parents’ consent.”

“If I make them consent, do I get it?”

“Possibly; but they won’t,” he teased her.

“You don’t know me,” she warned him.

The end of August came, and with it the great man’s departure, for rehearsals in town. Isabelle was desolated. Her god, her idol, was leaving her behind, and only because of those eternal drawbacks—her parents. She said her farewell to him demurely, and echoed his hope that they would meet soon in town.

“You’ve made my summer for me, little witch,” he said, in an aside.

He left. There passed three days of utter misery and boredom. Wally went to New York on business, and refused to take her along; Max was cross; the devil of revolt entered Isabelle.

She wired Cartel:

Terrible row. Disinherited by parents. Will apply at theatre to-morrow, at ten, for promised job.

Isabelle.