"You--you must not think of loneliness; you will never be lonely, my
dear. If you are, it will be of your own choice!"

"Who knows?" Joan smiled sadly. She was thinking of a man who had told
her that he loved her. There had been more than one, but the one man
stood out clear and distinct from all others; she could even remember
the words he had used.

"If, in telling you that I love you, I have sinned past all forgiveness,
I glory in it, and I take not one word of it back."

Yet how could he love her? How could he, when he had insulted her, when
he had used her name, as he had, when he had humiliated and shamed her,
how could he profess to love her? And they had met but three times in
their lives.

"Joan, dear," Helen Everard said, "Joan!"

"Yes? I am sorry, I--I was thinking." Joan looked up.

Helen had come into the room, an open letter in her hand.

"I wrote to John and Constance Everard, my nephew and niece," Helen
said. "I told them I was here with you, and asked them to come over.
They are coming to-morrow, dear. I think you will like them."

"I am sure I shall," Joan said; but there was no enthusiasm in her
voice, only cold politeness that seemed to chill a little.