The question remained so long unanswered that one was disposed to wonder if the girl had heard it; and this time Mr Frazer persisted in waiting for the reply which did not come. He showed no inclination to press her. Picking up his pouch from the turf, he began, leisurely, to refill his pipe; and, for the first time since he had begun his story, he withdrew his glance from Dorothy; using his eyes to observe the tobacco as he pressed it home. She sat motionless; her hands in front of her; her gaze fixed on the sugar, which the flies still harried; a slight slip of a girl, with black hair, drawn tightly back from her temples, and twisted in a knot behind. That was how they had taught her to do it when, in the convent, she had put it up; she knew no other way, and had no notion of the wonders which an artist in hairdressing could perform with her luxuriant tresses. Although her face was so white and thin that one doubted if she had had enough to eat, it was good to look at. When she raised the long lashes which veiled her eyes, one seemed to see right through the violet orbs which were beneath into her very soul. But the man on the other side of the tablecloth had known many varieties of women's eyes; he was aware how apt they are to look one thing and mean another; he had little faith in that imponderable essence, the feminine soul; he merely thought what curious eyes the girl had got; quite out of the common. And as, with practised fingers, he packed his pipe, he waited, patiently, for her to speak. At last she did speak; and, when she did, her words were not an answer to his question. "You know she's not an old lady." The attribution of such knowledge seemed to surprise him; he seemed, for a moment, to be in doubt as to what, exactly, her words referred. Then when he understood he smiled. "Is that so?" He continued to fill his pipe; and she to look at the sugar. Then she asked: "What are you going to do:" "I am going to light a match." He did so as he spoke, holding the flickering flame to the bowl of his pipe. "You know that's not what I mean." "Do I?" The tobacco was becoming ignited; he sent a puff of smoke into the air. "What do you mean?" She looked round at him. "I am Dorothy Gilbert." "Of course you are." Nothing could have been more matter-of-fact than the air with which he said it. She spoke with a catching of her breath; as if she resented his coolness. "Did you--know it?" "Of course I did." "Did you--know it all along?" "Certainly--that is, let me be exact; it's as well to be exact--now and then. When I heard that story at 'The Bolton Arms' I would have bet that you were; when you came out of my house, and I saw you standing on the ledge, I was sure that you were. They have your description so pat, over at Newcaster, that it was impossible not to recognise you." "Then--then why did you give me my breakfast?" "Why shouldn't I? You were my guest." "When--when you knew that I was Dorothy Gilbert!"