Presently Mrs. Goodman entered, bearing a tray of food and a telegram.
"You must need food," she said. "I have brought it, and I have said you are not to be disturbed." Her voice was strained and trembling, but quite kindly.
Philippa opened the telegram. "Operation to-morrow--hopeful--will wire again." For a moment she could not think what it meant, then she remembered; but somehow it seemed trivial, of no importance. Nothing mattered just now but the explanation which must surely come. All else was far away, outside the radius of her mind.
The woman pressed food and wine upon her, and stood beside her as she ate. Then she removed the tray and placed in on a table, and returned to Philippa's side. Her face was working grievously, her limbs were shaking. Then, quite suddenly, she sat down and burst into tears--the slow, laboured weeping of the aged.
Philippa drew her chair closer, and laying a hand on her shoulder she waited, knowing instinctively that the tears would bring healing, and that the overstrained nerves must find relief before words would come.
At last she grew quieter, and said brokenly, "He knew me! You heard him! 'Goody! Goody will understand!' I that have nursed him and tended him from babyhood! And never to know me--never to know his old Goody all these weary years! At last! At last! Oh! if my lady were but here to see!"
"Will you try and realise that I know nothing?" Philippa said gently. "I lost my way last night and went into the wrong room, and found--him. I do not even know who he is, but he seemed to expect me. Try and tell me what it all means."
"First, will you please tell me who you are?" said Mrs. Goodman.
"I am Philippa Harford."
"Aye, Philippa Harford! How little I thought ever to speak that name again! You are Philippa Harford, that I know--it is written clearly on your face for all to see; but you are not the Miss Philippa I knew, although I had not imagined that two faces could be so much alike."
"My father was James Harford. He died a few years ago. I did not know there was another Philippa."
"James Harford!" echoed the woman. "That would be Mr. Jim."
Philippa rose to her feet, and walking over to the dressing-table returned with a photograph in her hand.
"This was my father," she said. "It is an old photograph."