Philippa followed her, blindly, stumblingly, for her knees were shaking now, and there was such an air of resentment in the other's demeanour that it jarred upon her overstrung nerves. In silence they passed down the long corridor until they arrived at their destination. The woman flung the door open and switched on the light. The fire was burning brightly, and Philippa recognised her own belongings on the dressing-table, and her dressing-down and slippers warming at the hearth, with a throb of relief. She walked in and then turned and faced her guide, who looked at her, long and scrutinisingly, opened her lips as if about to speak, and then shut them with a snap, as if afraid that words might escape against her will--hesitated for a moment, and then walked out and closed the door in silence. Philippa sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. One question was ringing through her brain. "What did it mean? What could it mean?" The wildest and most impossible explanations presented themselves to her fevered mind. Had she ever been here before? Was she dreaming? Had she lost her memory? Had she ever seen him before? Who had painted her portrait--and when? Then another thought struck her: Was it possible that he was mad? But no, she dismissed it immediately. There had been so sign of madness in his behaviour or his actions. Excitement, yes, but quite controlled; and above all truth and sincerity and passionate devotion. There was no mistaking that. Whatever might be the explanation of the extraordinary happenings of the evening, one thing was beyond all argument, beyond all doubt, and that was the love this man bore to--whom? The woman whom he imagined her to be--who was it? Philippa Harford! But _she_ was Philippa Harford. The name was not so common that Philippa Harfords were to be found readily to be confounded with one another. And the portrait!--there was the very heart of the mystery--the primrose gown--the violets. What was it he had said? "Love's violets!" and "The dark, dark shadows since they had met." And then--"yesterday,"--he had said they had met yesterday. What could it mean? She pressed her hands closer against her aching temples. What was the secret of this extraordinary house? Was it all unreal? Had it never happened at all? Was it supernatural--a fevered vision of the brain--an apparition haunting the scenes of the past? Impossible! And the woman? She at all events had been tangible and real. Why had she looked at her with eyes that held hatred--nothing more nor less than hatred, bitter and undisguised?