It was not a question but an assertion.
He sank down in a chair and covered his face with his hands. Isabella seated herself close to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
Philippa stood just inside the door which she had shut; she was leaning against it and both her hands were pressing the wood behind her, as if the solid surface were the only thing firm in a world of chaos. There was no sound in the room except the slow ticking of the clock which seemed to be tolling for the vanished years.
Suddenly Francis broke the silence.
Sitting up and lifting a white, drawn face to Isabella, "Old friend," he said brokenly, "you would not lie to me—tell me—am I mad?"
"No," she answered quickly, and almost sternly, "no, a thousand times no."
"Then what does it mean? Phil, my little Phil, is gone—is dead—I know she is dead or she would be here—and mother—seventy-three years—my mother was not seventy-three. Phil is dead——" He paused and then turned to Philippa: "Who are you?"
It was Isabella who answered him, framing her reply so that he could understand: "This is Jim's girl," she said.
"Jim's girl?" he repeated. "Old Jim! Where is he?" and as she did not speak he threw out his arms with a quick despairing movement. "Dead?—are they all dead?"
And instantly Isabella's hands closed on his in a strong close grip.