"I hardly know why I did not do so, but I know that it was impossible to me. It is not as if I had ever--as if I had any right--I was a stranger. It is true that I knew Robert Gale in the old days, but look at the years that have passed. He would probably not have remembered me, and how could I have explained? It would have been like tearing my inmost heart out and laying it on the table for him to dissect as he chose. My story was my own--I have hugged it very close--until you came. And yet I think I always knew that some day, through no effort of mine, the veil would be lifted. I was certain of it, and in that certainty I could wait with some degree of patience until the moment came. Sometimes I must confess I have wondered whether it would be in this world or the next--and I didn't want it in some other sphere, but here in the old world, among the scenes and sights he loved. I have waited for some message. Will it ever come, I wonder! Shall I ever see his face again? For a moment I thought it had come when I met you--in all outward seeming, the Phil I used to know. I knew she was dead--I saw it in the papers; and then to meet you! Honestly, my senses reeled. "Then of course it became clear that you were of another generation. I think I did not realise how far I had left my youth behind until I knew you. And still you did not mention him--and God knows I wanted to question--but I saw that if I wanted all the truth I must wait a little longer. I saw you were not one of those who blurt out all their affairs to a passing stranger--that first I must win your trust and, if I could, your affection." Philippa laid her hand on Isabella's with a mute gesture and she clasped it tightly. "So I set myself to wait again with all the patience I could muster. You may wonder why I told you about Ian Verity; perhaps it seems to you a small thing--but it was all I had, all that I valued outside the story that I am telling you now, and I gave you my confidence, craving yours in return. It was nothing to you. But now you have broken the silence." "How does he look?" she asked suddenly. "I have always remembered him as he used to be, and yet, of course, he must be changed." "His hair is white," said Philippa gently; "but he looks young in spite of that. He is so slim and upright--not like a man of his age." "And his face?" Isabella asked the question almost in a whisper. "He bears a dreadful scar, but I do not think it alters his expression. It leaves his features quite untouched." Isabella drew a long breath. "Ah!" she murmured, "how often I have dreaded lest he should be dreadfully disfigured. His face was so beautiful," she added pathetically.