"Is he—conscious?" she asked in a low voice.
"He recognises the doctor and his old nurse, but we cannot tell how much he remembers about his long illness."
"Is he—happy?"
"I think he is perfectly happy," replied Philippa slowly.
There was a short silence, and then Isabella resumed her seat. Philippa glanced at her and then turned away her eyes, but she answered the unspoken question she had read in her friend's face.
"It is impossible to say. The doctor cannot tell. At first he thought it would be only a matter of days or perhaps weeks; but now the improvement has been very great, and it seems as though if all goes well he might live some time. You see, his memory returned quite suddenly, and the shock was very great. It was almost too much for his strength. We can only go on from day to day. It is useless to look forward."
At last Isabella spoke. "You must forgive me," she said brokenly, and with an evident effort to regain her composure. "But it is a long time since I have heard his name. I thank you for telling me, but—there is something I cannot understand. What are you doing here—you—a child, with a face and form of the past?"
"I met him quite by accident. I went into his room, mistaking it for my own, on the first evening after my arrival. I came to stay with Marion Heathcote, who is an old friend of mine."
"And he?"
"He thinks I am——"