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

"What, pray?"

"About Amazons."

"Well, we'll not have Amazons with the c.o.c.ktails, 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.

She forgot her troubles somewhat at the Hunters'. All the Amazons were there, as well as Margie's brother, Herbert, an elderly person of twelve, with some of his friends. They treated the girls with great scorn until Isabelle told them the story of the persecutions she endured at home, in order to be an Amazon. It featured imprisonment in a tower room, on a diet of bread and water, branding irons and flogging with a buckled strap. They formed a delighted circle about her, and urged her on.

"Some little liar, that kid!" exclaimed Herbert. "_Then_ what did you do?"

The big boys followed her about all day, to the exclusion of the other Amazons, who took refuge in chanting derogatory remarks, such as:

"Herbie Hunter is stuck on Isabelle!"

When 5:30 arrived and with it, Miss Watts, Isabelle departed with a feeling of a day well spent. She turned her thoughts to the next event.

They had a puncture on the way, and the terrace and halls were deserted when they arrived home. Miss Watts hurried her off to the schoolroom, for supper, and urged her to take her bath and go to bed after her strenuous day. The child was docility itself.

While she was at supper a note was brought to her. It was from Christiansen. She read:

MY DEAR ISABELLE: You cannot imagine what a pleasant welcome your note gave me. I am thrilled to know that I am under the roof with a real Amazon, and I live in the expectation of seeing you "strong and true in riding breeches."

Your devoted admirer, MARTIN CHRISTIANSEN.

An idea was born at that moment! When Miss Watts went to carry the supper tray downstairs, because the maids were busy, Isabelle hastily donned her riding clothes, turned on the bath water to mislead Miss Watts on her return, crept down the stairs and out. From the terrace she peered into the long drawing room. The French doors leading on to the terrace were open wide, and in the softly lighted room she saw the house-party guests a.s.sembling. They straggled in, one by one. Isabelle's eyes brightened at Christiansen's big boom of laughter, and she admired his broad shoulders, as he leaned on the mantelpiece at the far end.

She flew to the stables, crept in at the back, led out the Peruvian horse, saddled, mounted him, and kicked him gently in the flanks. Up and onto the terrace she guided him, just as indoors, Matthews arrived with the c.o.c.ktails.

In through the open windows rode Isabelle, and slowly down the long drawing room. Everybody gasped.

"Isabelle Bryce!" cried her mother.

"Martin," she said eagerly, "this is how I look as an Amazon!"

It was part of the cruel fate that dogged her, that at this supreme moment the Peruvian horse slipped on a rug on which Matthews happened to be standing, whereupon they all went down together, pouring a generous libation of c.o.c.ktails at Christiansen's feet!

CHAPTER NINE

Poor Isabelle languished in disgrace in her own room for the two days of her mother's house party, as a result of her Amazonian entrance to the dinner. Martin Christiansen pleaded her case, took the blame upon himself; the rest of the party laughed heartily over the episode and demanded more Isabelle, but Max remained adamant and refused to release the prisoner.

Wally visited his daughter on Sunday, carrying a note from Christiansen.

He expected to find her raging at her confinement, but, instead, she was curled up in a chair with a book on her lap, and he had to speak to her twice before she heard him.

"h.e.l.lo, Wally," she said, unenthusiastically.

"h.e.l.lo. How are you getting on?"

"Fine."

"Pity you have to be shut up this nice day."

"I like it."

He grinned derisively.

"I do--honust."

"What was your idea of coming into the drawing room on a horse, anyhow?"

"I wanted to show Mr. Christiansen something. He understood it all right."

"Made your mother hopping."

"Oh, well, she's always hopping. Why didn't you ask Mr. Christiansen up?"

"Against orders. No one admitted. He sent a note," he added, handing it over.

Isabelle read:

DEAR CAPTIVE ISABELLE: Do you languish in your dungeon cell? Your true knight points an arrow with this missive, and shoots it in at your window. (I trust your father will not resent this poetic license.) I was thrilled at the sight of you as an Amazon, and I agree about the riding breeches!

Yours eternally, CHRISTIANSEN-KNIGHT.

"What's poetic license?" she asked Wally.

"Poetic license? Why--it's some kind of license poets get, I suppose."

"Like a dog license, or a chauffeur's?"

"Well, something like that. Why?"

"Oh, nothing."

"What's the book?"

"'Idylls of the King.'"

"Good?"