"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 asset."
"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 assurance 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."