Early in the new year David Martin returned from the West bearing about him the impression of battle crowned by victory.  He was jovial and boyishly delighted with Doris’s improvement.

“I haven’t long to stay,” he confided to her, “but I had to see how things were going here before I settled down in New York.  Nancy looks fine!  She’s happy, too.”  This to Nancy, who was fondling the pups by the fire.

“Well, then, how about Joan?”

Doris, her hands folded in her lap, did not reply.

At this Martin took to striding up and down the long, sunny room.  The thought of Nancy rested him; Joan always irritated him.

“When is she coming back?” he asked suddenly.

“She’s got——­” Nancy hesitated at the word; “she’s got a job.  She won’t come home until she’s lost that.”

Martin turned on Doris a perplexed and awakened face.

“What’s this?” His voice had the ring of the primitive male.

“Well, you know Joan is with Sylvia Reed, David.  You remember that girl who painted so beautifully at Dondale?  Sylvia has a studio, now, and is regularly launched.  She’s doing extremely good work.  Nan, show Doctor Martin that magazine cover that Sylvia did.”

David took the magazine indifferently from the obedient Nancy and dropped it at once.

“Who’s looking after them?” he inquired, leaping, in his deadly rigid way, over much debatable ground.

“They’re looking after themselves, David.”  Doris metaphorically got into position for a severe bout.

“You don’t mean,” Martin came close and glowered over Doris, “you cannot possibly mean that Joan is going in for that loose, smudgy stunt that some girls are doing down in that part of town known as Every Man’s Land?”

Nancy ran to the window and bent over her loom.  She was always frightened when David Martin looked as if he were going to perform an operation.

“Certainly not,” Doris replied; “the girls have a place uptown in a perfectly respectable quarter.  Joan shares the expense.  This is very real and fine, David.  And you are not going to blame me for permitting Joan to do this—­it was the only thing to be done.  The girl has a right to her life and the use of her talents; this was an opening that we could not ignore.  Sylvia Reed is older than Joan.”

“How much?” David’s voice was like steel.

“Four years.”  In spite of her anxiety, Doris had to laugh.

“Is this a joke, Doris?” Martin was confused.

“Why, no, David, it isn’t.”

“Were you mad, Doris?  Why, don’t you know that many girls are simply crooked while they call themselves emancipated?  I am amazed at you.  How did you dare!  Have you thought what an injustice you’ve done the girl?  Keeping her in cotton wool, feeding her on specialized food, and then letting her loose among—­among garbage pails?”

Nancy fled from the room.  The operation was on!