"We all know what we should like, but we can't choose our prize."
"No," rejoined Isabella quickly, "You are quite right, we cannot choose and we cannot all win.
"'And what reward for strivers who are losers? A wooden spoon? Sometimes not even that. Nor, does this seem, since men may not be choosers, A thing to wonder at;'"
she quoted, smiling. "The wooden spoon is mine, and I suppose I ought to cultivate a decent gratitude for favour received."
"What nonsense!" said Philippa, laughing. "You are not a loser. You have won a great deal more than you know. Some day you will learn how deep an affection your readers have for you, and your heart will be warmed by the knowledge of the happiness you have given to thousands."
Isabella smiled. "Well, well; we shall see," she said serenely.
"You will be dragged from your retirement when that day comes," continued Philippa. "You will not be able to hide your light any longer, and I shall be dazzled by the splendour of it."
"Not a bit of it. Here I am, and here I shall stay. I take comfort in the fact that no one connects Ian Verity with an elderly and unattractive spinster hidden in a hermitage on Bessmoor. You will not betray me, I know, and it is good of you to come and visit me in my solitude. I am growing old and you have all your life before you. I have crossed to the shady side of the road while you walk still in the sunshine. I have thought of you often since we met."
"And I of you," answered Philippa quietly, and then after a moment's pause she added, "You do not ask me what I have been doing."
"That does not mean that I do not care to know," replied Isabella gently. She was sitting looking out on the moor, leaning back in her chair with her hands folded in her lap. Something in the rigidity of her attitude told Philippa that she was listening intently.
"I have been helping to nurse Francis Heathcote."