ave 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 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."

"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 b