the impossible situation. "I must go now. It is
getting late." Even as she spoke the words their utter banality
irritated her, but what could she do?

He moved forward. "Is it late?" he said. "Have I kept you too long?
But you will come again to-morrow?" He took her hands, which were
hanging nerveless at her sides--took them and held them close. "You
will come?" he whispered passionately. "Ah, dear love! the shadows
when you do not come!"

It was impossible to resist the appeal in his look and voice. "I will
come," she answered very low.

He raised her hands and kissed first one and then the other.

"Good-night," he said tenderly. "God guard you, my dear love!"

Philippa broke from him, and turning swiftly, opened the door and
passed out. Then she stopped abruptly, startled. On the threshold a
woman was standing, a woman of advanced years and rather stern
appearance. She wore a dark gown, and her grey hair was covered with a
cap of some soft white material. She moved aside to allow the girl to
pass, and then said in a cold and perfectly emotionless voice, "I will
show you to your room."

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 i