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.
"Hello, Wally," she said, unenthusiastically.
"Pity you have to be shut up this nice day."
"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."
"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.
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."
"Great. I'm going to give it in my theatre."
"Playing all the parts yourself?" he teased.
"All the important ones," she answered, seriously.
"Shall I tell your mother that you are enjoying yourself?"
Wally took up her abandoned book, while she went to her desk to compose.
Dearest Knight: I languish a little, but not much. I'm writing a play out of "Idylls of the King." I wish you would be Launcelot, Tommy Page could be Merlin. I knew you would understand about the Amazon and horse. I'm glad you liked the . . .
"B-r-e-e-c-h-e-s. What are you saying about them?" he inquired, coming to look over her shoulder.
. . . breeches. Wally did not mind your license. He thought you ought to have it. The police are so crooel. Your loving friend, ISABELLE.
"What do I get for running the blockade for you like this?" he inquired.