She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more and more that of a veteran.

She was never weary, never overcome with disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation.

She had her own ideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility.

But her will was mistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she kept going.

It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art of life were some clever trick she had guessed.