The reminiscence decided her.

Theophil could never be hers; but at least no facile or mediocre attachments should fill his place.

So at once there is posted a letter, as kind as cruelty can make it, and with it go a little ormolu clock, a pair of mother-of-pearl opera-glasses, a lovely fan it was hard, Isabel, to part with,--and there is an end of that.
"Not after Theophil!" she sighed, as she took up her great Persian cat, and, like it, sat gazing into the fire that flickered dreamily among her fantastic possessions,--a mystery gazing idly into a mystery..