"Yet, I think," she said, "that Joan must have cared. I sometimes think
that it is not the man whom she believes to have killed Father, for whom
she seeks--it is for the man who slighted her."

"I hope," he said, gravely, "that she may never find either. Let us
forget that such a person exists."

"Willingly," she answered, with a little shrug of the shoulders. "What
shall we talk about?"

"Ourselves."

"First of all then, why are you in evening dress on a Sunday?"

"Been out to dinner," he answered. "Let me tell you all about it."

He tried to let her understand something of the period of depression
through which he had passed, and he found her, as ever, wonderfully
sympathetic, quick to comprehend, keenly interested. They talked of his
novel, he told her of his new ideas, of the fancies which had come
dancing into his brain during the last few hours. But she was perhaps
more moved than at any time, when he spoke of that wonderful visit of
his to the Abbey. He tried to make her feel what it had meant to him,
and in a measure he succeeded. Suddenly he stopped--almost in the
middle of a sentence. He was astonished to realise how pretty she was.

"Now tell me about yourself," he said. "Have you sent anything to
Drexley yet?"