and this was Martin's house, not hers and Martin's . . . it hurt.

"Ah," said Mrs. Harley softly as she went into Joan's bedroom. "Ah.
Very nice. You both have room to move here." But the mass of little
filet lace pillows puzzled her, and she darted a quick look at the
tall young thing with the inscrutable face who had ceased to be her
little girl and had become her daughter.

"The sun pours in," said Joan, turning away.

Mrs. Harley noticed a door and brightened up.

"Martin's dressing room?" she asked. "No. My maid's room!" Joan
said.

Mrs. Harley shook her head ever so little. She was not in sympathy
with what she called new-fashioned ideas. It was on the tip of her
tongue to say so and to forget, just this once, the inevitable
change in their relationship and speak like mammy once more. But she
was a timid, sensitive little woman, and the indefinable barrier
that had suddenly sprung up held her back. Joan made no attempt to
meet her halfway. The moment passed.

They went along the passage. "There are Martin's rooms," said Joan.

Mrs. Harley went halfway in. "Like a bachelor's rooms, aren't they?"
she said, without guile. And while she glanced at the pictures and
the crowded bootrack and the old tallboys, Joan's sudden color went
away again. . . . He was a bachelor. He had left her on the other
side of the bridge. He had hurt her last night. How awfully she must