“Joan would be quite handsome,” she said, “if she were decently dressed.”

“Some people might think so,” he answered.  “She wouldn’t be my style.  I think I agreed, because in those days we all seemed to do exactly what your Father ordered.  Besides, the thing was sprung upon me so suddenly.  It took my breath away.

“That was rather like Father,” she remarked.  “He liked taking us by storm.  Now I want to hear how you have got on, and what you are doing.  Let us drop the past for a little while, at any rate.”

He poured her out a glass of wine, and found time to notice how pretty she was, with her slightly flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

“I am on a newspaper,” he said, “the Daily Courier.  I got on quite by chance, and they are going to keep me.”

She looked at him with keen interest.

“How delightfully fortunate!” she exclaimed.  “It is what you wanted all your life, isn’t it?  And the Ibex story?

“Will appear next month.  I have lots of orders for others too.  The first thing I wrote for the Courier was quite successful.”

She looked at him wistfully.  “Couldn’t you send it to me?” she asked.

He took out pencil and paper.

“Of course.  Give me your address.”

She began, but stopped short with a little cry.

“Whatever am I doing!” she exclaimed.  “Why, Douglas, you mustn’t think of writing nor of sending anything to me.  Joan might see it, and she would know your handwriting in a moment.”

He paused with the pencil in his hand.

“That’s rather a nuisance,” he said.  “Isn’t there somewhere else I can write?”

She shook her head regretfully.

“I’m afraid not.”

“It is rather ridiculous,” he said frowning.  “I don’t want to go about in fear and trembling all my life.  Don’t you think that if I were to see her or write to you I could convince—­”

She stopped him, horrified.

“Douglas,” she said, “you don’t understand Joan.  I am not sure that even I, who live with her, do.  She reminds me sometimes of those women of the French revolution.  There is a light in her eyes when she speaks of you, which makes me shiver.  Stay in London if you must, but pray always that chance may not bring you two together.”

He answered her with an affectation of lightness, but her words were not without effect upon him.  He paid the bill and she lowered her veil.  Out in the street he would have called a hansom, but she checked him.

“An omnibus, if you please, Douglas!” she exclaimed.  “Joan would never forgive me the extravagance if she saw me in a cab.  I can find one at the corner, and I should feel so much more comfortable if you would leave me here.”

He looked down at her and realised once more the dainty Watteau—­like grace of her oval face and slim, supple figure.  He thought of the days when they had stolen out together on to the hillside, oftenest in the falling twilight, sometimes even in the grey dawn, and his heart beat regretfully.  How was it that in those days he had never more fully realised her charms?