By this time Lydia began to get hot after the puzzle which unfolded itself slowly before her. Why did the Vice-Consul ask her so many questions? and he had begun to say something about “the name of Joscelyn.” What about the name of Joscelyn? Then a crowd of bewildering recollections, like motes in the sunbeam, like the whirling flakes of a snowstorm, began to circle and dance and palpitate around her. “We are of the same country, and I know what you think--but it is not that.” What was it, then? What was it? He a relative of Isaac Oliver! no, no!--it was impossible; but he knew Isaac Oliver; he knew his name and herself; he knew what she meant when she spoke; and when she tried to humble him with her impertinence, he was not angry, but sorry. She seemed to see now his kind, half-reproachful, half-appealing eyes, the look which bewildered and arrested her, she could not tell why. Quicker and quicker went the course of Lydia’s thoughts. He had a child who was called Ralph, and another Joan--no, not Joan, but Giovanna; but there had come a gleam out of his eyes when Lionel had suggested Joan. Who was he, who could he be to use these names, to look like that, like somebody she had seen, to understand all she meant, yet not to be angry? And their voices that were of the same tone! She could see this herself, or rather she could hear it herself--that their voices sounded alike, with a suspicion of a North-Country accent. Good heavens! where was this flood of suggestion, of recollection, carrying her? She jumped up from her seat in the confusion and hurry of her thoughts, and began to pace about the room, her hands clasped together like her mother’s. Then she stopped in the centre of the room, and in the silence, in the middle of the night, threw up her arms above her head with a wild gesture, and gave a sudden cry. “Harry!” she almost screamed to herself in the stillness. Everybody was asleep around her, the stars winking in the sky as if about to shut up their wakeful eyes, the blue behind the belfry beginning to glow with a pale radiation into the air of the coming dawn--and as if they had given each other a signal, all the clocks of the silent town began chiming and striking, some of them prolonging the lengthened measure of the Italian time into the soft tuning of the night. Lydia standing in the middle of the room in wild excitement, her hair streaming about her, her arms thrown up, her mouth open, looked like a prophetess in a trance, seeing the invisible, almost shrieking her revelation into the heart of the silence. Harry! Harry! She could not keep it to herself; she could not help but scream it out into the night, to make sure that she was not dreaming or raving--but was a sane creature, who had made a discovery which seemed to set her whole being on fire.