In an instant Joan was on her feet with her arms around the
shoulders of the best friend she had, whose face had gone as white
as stone. "Oh, my dear," she said, "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I didn't
mean that in the least, not in the very least. It was only one of my
cheap flippancies, said just to amuse myself and shock you. Don't
you believe me?"

Tears came to Alice. She had had at least one utterly sleepless
night and several days of mental anguish. She was one of the women
who love too well. She confessed to these things, brokenly, and it
came as a kind of shock to Joan to find some one taking things
seriously and allowing herself to suffer.

"Why, Alice," she said, "Gilbert means nothing to me. He's a dear
old thing; he's awfully nice to look at; he sums things up in a way
that makes me laugh; and he dances like a streak. But as to flirting
with him or anything of that sort--why, my dear, he looks on me as a
little boob from the country, and in my eyes he's simply a man who
carries a latchkey to amusement and can give me a good time. That's
true. I swear it."

It was true, and Alice realized it, with immense relief. She dried
her eyes and held Joan away from her at arm's length and looked at
her young, frank, intrepid face with puzzled admiration. It didn't
go with her determined trifling. "I shall always believe what you
tell me, Joan," she said. "You've taken a bigger load than you
imagine off my heart--which is Gilbert's. And now sit down again and
be comfortable and let's do what we used to do at school at night
and talk about ourselves. We've both changed since those days,
haven't we?"