She ran to the door, but as she reached it she stopped. Retracing her steps to the dressing-table she scanned herself closely in the glass. An unwonted colour flushed her sallow cheeks as she straightened the cap and replaced some strands of hair which straggled under it. Poor Isabella, she was perhaps more of a woman than she knew.
But she did not linger, and in another minute she was seated beside Philippa, hastening in answer to the summons for which she had waited so long. Suddenly a thought struck her, and she asked quickly-"He is not ill?"
"He is not ill, but I think that something is troubling him. We were in the village, and I left him for a few minutes while I went into the post-office. When I came out he asked to go straight home, and when we got to the house he asked me to fetch you. Oh, Isabella, I do not know what I fear, but he spoke so--differently--it did not seem like Francis speaking. I only hope he has not remembered--anything that will pain him. What could have changed him so quickly? He could not have met any one he knew--there was no one about--and besides, there is no one."
"Tell me just what he said."
Philippa did so, and Isabella was silent for a while, and her face was very grave. Then she said gruffly, "Well, we've just got to help him, whatever the trouble is."
They did not speak again, and when they arrived at the High House Philippa led the way quickly to Francis' sitting-room, and was about to enter when she stopped and motioned to Isabella to precede her.
He was standing just as he had stood once before, and he now came forward with just the same air of eagerness he had shown then, and Philippa's thoughts flew back to that first evening which had seen the beginning of it all for her; but his expression was different, for where joy had been so clearly visible then, intense anxiety and even fear were now written upon his face.
Isabella held out her hand. "Francis!" she said quietly. "It is good to see you again." And if she felt any surprise at his altered looks she did not betray it in her even tone.
He laid his hand in hers without speaking as his eyes scanned her face. "Isabella!" he cried "It is Isabella!" There was no doubt in the words, only something of terror.
"Isabella!" he repeated; then he passed his hand over his brows with a little pitiful gesture. "Then--Phil--is dead."
It was not a question but an assertion.