If you do, I'll have something to tell him
of a marriage that never took place in June, nineteen eighteen, and of a
man who came to my office to see you, and offered to marry you--as
atonement. Oh yes, I heard--trust me! I don't let interviews take place
in my offices that I don't know anything about!"

He was silent suddenly. There was that in her face that worried him,
frightened him in spite of himself--a wild, staring look in her eyes;
the whiteness of her cheeks, the whiteness even of her lips. There was a
tragic look about her. He had seen something like it on the stage at
some time. He realised that he might be goading her too far.

"I'll go now," he said. "I'll go and leave you to think it all out. You
can rely on me not to say anything. I shan't humble you, or talk about
you--not me! A man don't run down the girl he means to make his wife,
and that's what I mean--Joan! In spite of everything, you understand, my
girl?" He paused. "In spite of everything, Joan, I'll still marry you!
But I'll come back. Oh, I'll come back, I--" He paused. He suddenly
remembered the denuded state of his finances, yet it did not seem an
auspicious moment just now to ask her for financial help.

"I'll write," he thought. He looked at her.

"Good-bye, Joan. I'll come back; you'll hear from me soon. Meanwhile,
remember--not a word, not a word to a living soul. You're all right,
trust me!"

Meanwhile Johnny Everard wandered about the sweet, old-world garden, and
did not appreciate its beauties in the least. He was waiting, and there
is nothing so dreary as waiting for one one longs to see and who comes
not.

But presently there came a maid, that same maid who had earned Johnny's
temporary hatred.

"Miss Meredyth wished me to say, sir, that she would be very glad if you
would excuse her. She's been taken with a bad headache, and has had to
go to her own room to lie down."

"Oh!" said Johnny. The sun seemed to shine less brightly for him for a
few moments. "I'm sorry. All right, tell her I am very sorry, and--and
shall hope to see her soon!"

Ten minutes later Johnny Everard was driving back along the hot
high-road, utterly unconscious that the car was running very badly and
misfiring consistently.

In her own room Joan sat, her elbows on the dressing-table, her eyes
staring unseeingly out into a garden, all glowing with flowers and
sunlight.

She was not thinking of Johnny Everard; his very existence had for the
time being