He drew his breath with a long quivering sigh--his lips trembled; it was simply a jest to frighten him on his wedding day.
Then, one by one--slowly, sadly, surely--a whole host of circumstances returned to his mind, making confirmation strong.

He remembered well--only too well--the scene in the balcony.

He remembered the pale starlight, the light scarf thrown over Philippa's shoulders, even the very perfume that came from the flowers in her hair; he remembered how her voice had trembled, how her face had shown in the faint evening light.

When she had quoted the words of _Priscilla_, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, she had meant them as applicable to her own case--"Why don't you speak for yourself, John ?" They came back to him with a fierce, hissing sound, mocking his despair.

She had loved him through all--this proud, beautiful, brilliant woman for whom men of highest rank had sighed in vain.