A week had passed since Slotman’s visit, and since she had with her own hands posted the letter to Hugh Alston.  A week of waiting, and nothing had come of it!  This morning she glanced through the letters.  Her eyes had lost their old eagerness; she no longer expected anything.

As usual, there was nothing from “Him,” but there was one for her in a handwriting that she knew only too well.  She touched it as if it were some foul thing.  She was in two minds whether to open and read it, or merely return it unopened and addressed to Philip Slotman, Esq., Gracebury, London, E.C.  But she was a woman.  And it takes a considerable amount of strength of will to return unopened and unread a letter to its sender, especially if one is a woman.

What might not that letter contain?  Apology—­retraction, sorrow for the past, or further insolent demands, veiled threats, and a repetition of proposals refused with scorn and contempt—­which was it?  Who can tell by the mere appearance of a sealed envelope and the impress of a postmark?

Joan put the letter into her pocket.  She would debate in her mind whether she would read it or no.

“A letter from Connie, dear,” said Helen.  “She is coming over this afternoon and bringing Ellice Brand with her.  Joan, it is a week or more since Johnny was here.”

“Yes, about a week I think,” said Joan indifferently.  She was thinking meanwhile of the letter in her pocket.

Helen looked at her.  She wanted to put questions; but, being a sensible woman, she did not.  She had a great affection for Johnny.  What woman could avoid having an affection and a regard for him?  He was one of those fine, clean things that men and women, too, must like if they are themselves possessed of decency and appreciation of the good.

Yes, she was fond of Johnny, and she had grown very fond of late of this girl.  She looked under the somewhat cold surface, and she recognised a warm, a tender and a loving nature, that had been suppressed for lack of something on which to lavish that wealth of tenderness that she held stored up in her heart.

Quite what part Hugh Alston had played in the life of Joan, Helen did not know.  But she hoped for Johnny.  She wanted to see these two come together.  She was not above worldly considerations, for few good women are.  It would be a fine thing for Johnny, with his straitened income and his habit of backing losers—­from an agricultural point of view; but the main thing, as she honestly believed, was that these two could be very happy together.  So she wondered a little, and puzzled a little, and worried a little why Johnny Everard should suddenly have left off paying almost daily visits to Starden.

“I like Connie, and I shall be glad to see her,” said Joan.

“I wish Johnny were coming instead of—­”

“So do I!” said Joan heartily.  “I like him, I think, even more than I like Connie.  There is something so—­so honest and straight and good about him.  Something that makes one feel, ’Here is a man to rely on, a man one can ask for help when in distress.’  Sometimes—­” She paused, then suddenly she rose, and with a smile to Helen, went out.