'Perhaps,' he replied again. 'If,' said Roland, 'Mr. Feilding sends another picture in the same style for exhibition this year, I hope that the similarity of style may be tested by their hanging side by side.' 'Shall you send anything this year--in the same style?' asked Armorel. 'I hardly know. I have not decided.' The critic looked at the picture more closely. 'Strange!' he murmured. 'One would swear ... the same style--so individual--and belonging to two different men!' Then Roland covered his picture over with the curtain. There had been enough said. 'Now,' said Armorel, 'after our emotions and our fatigues of the play, we are exhausted. There is supper in the next room. Before we go in I want to sing you a song. I am not a singer, you know, and you must only expect simple warbling. But I want you to like the song.' She sat down to the piano and played a few bars of introduction. Then she sang the first verse--it was Effie's latest song, that which Mr. Feilding had accepted but not yet published. He heard and recognised. This third blow finished him. He sat down on the nearest chair, speechless. Mrs. Elstree watched him, wondering what was the matter with him. For he was in a speechless rage. Lucky for him that it was speechless, because for the moment he was beside himself, and might have said anything. 'That is the first verse,' said Armorel. 'I have set it to an old French air which I found in a book. The words seem written for the music. There are two more verses.' She sang them through. Her voice was pleasing though not strong: she sang sweetly and with feeling, just as she had sung in the old days on the shores of Samson, to the accompaniment of the waves lapping along the white sands, and she watched the man whom she had been torturing the whole evening through. Would not even this rouse him to some word or deed which might proclaim him a pretender and an impostor discovered? She knew, you see, that the lines were actually in type ready to appear as another poem by the Editor. She finished and rose. 'Do you like the song, Philippa?' she said. 'I have even had it printed and set to music. Anybody that pleases may carry away a copy. I hope everybody will, and keep it in remembrance of this evening. For the words are written by Miss Effie Wilmot, who has recited so beautifully her brother's play. We will share the honours of the evening between them. Archie, will you give me your arm? Roland'--in her excitement she called him by his Christian name, which caused a little surprise--'will you take Effie? Do you like the words, Mr. Feilding?' 'Very much indeed. I had seen them before you, I think.' 'Yes? Then you recognised them. You have seen other poems by the same hand, I believe?'