"There are things," he added, "which you do not know. There are things
which I pray that you may never know."

"It is hard to understand," she said.

"It is better not to understand," he answered. "It is even better for
Joan to believe what she does. That is all I can tell you."

They sat in silence for a while. There was a frown on Cicely's face.
She was not wholly satisfied. And from the river, with its fringe of
yellow lights, came the whistling of tugs as they passed out on their
way to the ocean, and the flashing of strange illuminations on her dark
bosom.

Then suddenly Cicely started forward on the seat, her fingers seized his
arm with a feverish grip. She gazed with distended eyes at the grim
form coming slowly along in the centre of the asphalted path. It was
Joan who came towards them. Their surprise was too great--her coming
too sudden for words. Only Douglas felt a small hand steal into his,
and Cicely, in spite of her mortal terror, experienced a pleasant sense
of protection as those strong fingers closed over hers.

Joan was fifty yards away, level with another seat, on which a solitary
man had been sitting in a slouching attitude. As she drew near him the
two who were watching with fascinated eyes saw him draw himself upright
and then shrink suddenly back. But he was too late. Joan's eyes had
lighted upon him. She stopped short, the man's attempt at evasion was
obvious. In a moment she was at his side.

"David," she cried. "David!"