Part 10 (2/2)

”That were a coffin, sure enough. Wonderful small that were. I'll be goin' over presently. But if some folks won't believe I don't feel no manner of doubt but what that's true,” and so saying she departed.

Isabella laughed. ”You must forgive Mrs. Palling,” she said. ”She is an excellent, hard-working woman, and most kind-hearted, although perhaps she hasn't given you that impression. Now let us have our tea comfortably.”

CHAPTER IX

A SQUARE IN THE PATCHWORK

”Reading into the Unknown Hopes that we have long outgrown.

Weaving into the Unseen Tidings of the Might-have-Been.”--S. R. LYSAGHT.

”What do you do for companions.h.i.+p?” asked Philippa presently. ”Don't you find it a little lonely here sometimes?”

”Yes, I am lonely sometimes. There is no use in denying it,” answered Isabella. ”But I am not more lonely here than I should be anywhere else. Some people are born to be alone, it seems to me; it must just be accepted as a fact and made the best of. But I lead a very busy life in my own way, and I have plenty of books, as you see.”

”Oh,” cried Philippa, as she turned to a small bookcase which stood close at hand, ”I see you have some of Ian Verity's books. Do you like them? My father was particularly fond of them, and we read most of them together. His writing appeals to me tremendously. I have fought more than one battle on his behalf with people who say he is too hard on women, and that some of his characters are overdrawn. Do you know him?”

”Yes, I think I may say that I know him pretty well,” replied the other quietly.

”I should very much like to meet him,” continued Philippa. ”I should so like to ask him why he wrote _The Millstone_, for, although I won't let any one say a word against him, I do think in my heart that he made a mistake--that his point of view was a little distorted, I mean. It was so tragically sad.”

”There is usually a strong element of tragedy in everyday life for those who have eyes to see it, and it is just the story of a plain woman. And there is not the slightest doubt that a woman without a share, at any rate, of good looks, is as a rule handicapped. She hasn't the same start in life as the others. To a woman, beauty is the very greatest a.s.set.”

”Oh, surely not the greatest,” objected Philippa. ”Looks are of no importance compared with attributes of the mind--intellect, sympathy.”

”Oh yes, they are. Those things come later in life, but they will very seldom help a woman to what she wants when she is young. A woman wants exactly those things which a man wants to find in her; and what a man wants is a pretty face, and the happy a.s.surance of manner which it gives its possessor. What man ever gave a second glance at a plain girl, however intelligent, if there was a pretty one in the room?

Later on in life, I grant you, a plain woman may gain a place by what you call attributes of the mind, but it won't be the same; her youth will be over, and youth is the time.”

”Evidently you agree with Ian Verity,” said Philippa.

Isabella looked up, ”Oh yes,” she said, ”of course I agree--because I am Ian Verity.”

”You are Ian Verity!” repeated the girl in astonishment.

The other nodded.

”Yes, but until this minute not a soul knew it except my publisher.”

”But every one thinks a man wrote the books.”

”Let them continue to think so,” said Isabella easily. ”I don't mind.

As a matter of fact I had no intention of deceiving any one when I published my first book under my initials only, but they all jumped to the conclusion that I. V. was a man; and when, later, my publisher thought it would be better for me to take a name instead of initials only, I saw no reason to undeceive the world at large, and chose a name to fit the letters.”

”I think it is wonderful,” said Philippa, after a slight pause. ”I cannot tell you how interested I am. When I think of the times without number that my father and I tried to build up a personality for the writer from the books, and the intense interest we took in him, and now to find that after all, if he had but known it, it was an old friend of his who wrote them and not a 'he' at all.”

”I am glad he liked my books. I wonder if he thought _The Millstone_ true to life,” she said musingly. ”I think, somehow, that he would have understood. Oh yes, it is true to life, my dear. I have been a plain woman, and I ought to know.”

”But how can you say that beauty is everything when you have such a wonderful gift? It is no small thing to be Ian Verity, and bring pleasure to thousands.”

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