hed away into thin air before a love that
filled his whole being. Lovelier, gayer, cleverer women, ready enough
to meet the heir of Richard Fourtenay-Carew halfway, had left him only
gay and careless. Joan Whitby, shy, distrustful, reserved, won the
prize unsought. She had run away from him, avoided any spot where they
might meet, hidden if she saw him in the distance, tried to hurry past
if they met unawares; more than that she could not do, because she was
the governess at the agent's house, and she and her charge must often
cross the park. But Captain Peter Fourtenay-Carew was a hot-headed,
determined young man, and having lost his heart to Joan's grey eyes
and delicate, lovely face, he was not very likely to be abashed by the
fact that she hid from him; rather it whetted his determination to win
her. And in the end, because Joan perceived he was an honest gentleman
and that he truly loved her, and because with all her pure, strong
soul she truly loved him, she left off running away and came shyly
through the wood to meet him. And of course Geoffrey, the jealous,
spiteful brother, discovered their secret, and carried the tale to his
uncle in violent, indignant guise, precipitating anger for his own
ends, where a little discretion might have found a compromise. Mr.
Carew's lips curled a little cruelly as he remarked he would easily
nip that peccadillo in the bud. He would have no penniless, unknown
governess reigning at Dartwood Hall, having already quite other views
for his future successor. Then he informed his agent the young lady
holding the post of governess in his house must be sent away at once,
with a quarter's wages which he would be pleased to remit. To Peter he
said nothing; he merely waited for an indignant scene, easily to be
squashed with cold and cursory logic concerning allowances and future
inheritance if his wishes were disregarded. But it was just there that
he misjudged this gay, handsome nephew of his, possessed also of a
fund of spirit and strong character which his uncle had not had the
perspicacity to perceive.

The interview duly transpired, but there was no indignation at all. If
he had looked for melodrama he was disappointed; the melodramatic did
not appeal to Peter Fourtenay-Carew. He merely told his uncle quite
quietly and respectfully that he intended to marry Joan Whitby.
Richard Carew condescended to reason a little before he resorted to
that cold, cursory logic, but he might just as w