“You have no right to call me a snob, Joan!” Nancy’s fair face flushed.

“Did I call you a snob, Nan, dear?”

“Yes, you did.  It’s not being a snob to be true to oneself.”  Nancy put up her defences.

“I should say not,” Joan agreed, but she laughed.

“Just think of all that Aunt Dorrie represents!” Nancy went on.  “She’s all that her father and her grandfather——­”

“And her grandmothers,” Joan broke in, “made her!  Just think of it!  And you and I must carry on the tradition—­at least you must—­I’m afraid I’ll have to be a quitter.  It makes me too hot.”

“You’ll never be a quitter, you splendid Joan!” Nancy turned her face to Joan——­ the old love had grown with the years, “You are splendid, Joan—­everyone adores you.”

But Joan did not seem to hear.  Suddenly she said: 

“Now do you know, Nan, I hate to go across the ocean this summer.  It seems such a waste of time.  I am eager to begin.”

“Begin what, Joan?”

“Begin to live.”

“You funny Joan, what have you been doing since you were born?”

“Waking up, Nan, and stretching and learning to stand alone.  I’m ready now to—­to walk.  I dare say I’ll wobble, but—­I don’t care—­I want to begin.”

A sense of danger filled Nancy—­she often felt afraid of Joan, or for Joan, she was not sure which it was.

“I think you’ll do nothing that will trouble and disappoint Aunt Dorrie,” she said, using the weapon of the weak.

“I think Aunt Dorrie would want me to—­to live my life,” Joan returned.

“Oh! of course, she’d let you—­go.  That’s Aunt Dorrie’s idea of justice.  But we have no right to impose on it.  People may be willing to suffer, but that’s no excuse for making them suffer.”  Nancy did battle with the fear that was in her—­her fear that Joan might escape her, and now, as in the old days, Nancy felt that play lost its keen zest when Joan withdrew.

Joan made no reply.  She looked very young with the sunlight flooding over her.  Her eyes wide apart, her short upper lip and firm, little round chin were almost childlike when in repose, and her heavy hair rose and fell in charming curves as the breeze stirred it.

“Joan, what do you want to do, really?” Nancy dropped from her perch beside Joan and came close, leaning against the swinging feet as if to stay their restlessness.

“Oh!  I don’t know—­but something real; something like a beginning, not just a carrying on.  I want to dig out of me what is in me and—­and—­offer it for sale!” Joan leaned back perilously and laughed at her own folly and Nancy’s shocked face.

“Of course, I may not have anything anybody wants,” she went on, “but I’ll never be able to settle down and be comfy until I know.  Having a rich somebody behind you is—­is—­the limit!” she flung out, defiantly.

“I don’t know what you mean, Joan.”  Nancy was aghast.  The fear within her was taking shape; it was like a shrouded figure looming up ready to cast off its disguise.