The young New Zioners looked at her.
"O Theophil, we _must_ go to London," cried Jenny.

She meant when they were married.
Theophil pressed her hand tenderly, as she impulsively sought his for sympathy, and his eyes left Isabel's face a moment to smile a true "yes" into Jenny's.
Of course no one had eyes for anyone but Isabel that night.

Was she not, as the announcements had said, "of London," an ambassadress of beauty from the capital of the great queen?
There was really little she could tell these clever young people, who amazed and attracted her by their reality,--the unrealities of "intensity" and "modernity" and the rest had, of course, already begun in London,--but she represented to them the sparkle of the new beauty and truth they loved.

She knew little intimate anecdotes of the poets and painters they loved, piquant gossip and brilliant _mots_; and then she was one of those women who are like incense in a room, enriching by her very presence, exhaling mystery and distinction, like a pomander of strange spices.
You might love her for a long time or a little, but love her you were obliged to while you were with her, whoever else you loved too.

There was no other word for it.