These were precisely the questions that Joan had worked so hard and
skilfully to dodge. "Well, first of all, Mummy," she said, with
filial artfulness, "you must come and see the house."

And Mrs. Harley, who had been consumed with the usual feminine
curiosity to examine every corner and cranny of it, rose with
alacrity. "What I've already seen is all charming," she said. "I
knew Martin's father, you know. He spent a great deal of time at his
house near your grandfather's, and was nearly always in the saddle.
He was not a bit like one's idea of a horsey man. He was, in fact, a
gentleman who was fond of horses. There is a world of difference. He
had a most delightful smile and was the only man I ever met, except
your grandfather, who could drink too much wine without showing it.
Who's this good-looking boy with the trustworthy eyes?"

"Martin," said Joan. "Martin," she added inwardly, "who treated me
like a kid last night."

Mrs. Harley looked up at the portrait. An involuntary smiled played
round her mouth. "Yes, of course. I remember him. What a dear boy!
No wonder you fell in love with him, darling. You must be very
happy."

Joan followed her mother out of the room. She was glad of the chance
to control her expression. She went upstairs with a curious lack of
the spirit of proprietorship. It hurt her to feel as if she were
showing a house taken furnished for the season in which she had no
rights, no pride and no personal interest. Martin had treated her
like a kid last night and gone away in the morning without a word.
Alice and Gilbert had taunted her with not being a wife. She wasn't,