Joan drew back her foot. “Glenn seemed to have an idea it was Miss Clare you had run to speak to. Grandam is a rival I could have credited. But Ariel—rather surprises me. Thanks, Prescott. That last buckle doesn’t matter. It’s always a nuisance.” So it was “Prescott” already with Joan. Hugh mentally congratulated the novelist on his quick work, for Joan was notoriously deliberate. “Why isn’t your Ariel down dancing, Hugh?” she inquired. “Oh, I forgot. Her father, I suppose. Well, I’m off. Good night.” She was standing, giving him her hand, smiling at him mockingly. “Was your trip successful? Did you see anything of my friends, the Weavers? Or Patricia Wilcox, by any chance?” Enderly was at the door to open it, and Joan was only asking Hugh these questions to soften the immediate departure she intended. But Hugh was not put off so lightly. “If you will go,” he said, “then I’m going with you.” Enderly, obedient to Joan’s slightest motion, opened the door, and the three of them moved out into the portico. Mrs. Nevin’s limousine was drawn up at the foot of the steps. Her chauffeur waited, dark against the lighted interior of the car, an erect figure, almost Egyptian in passivity, until Joan started down the steps, a man at either shoulder. Then he sprang down to stand at attention at the limousine door. “I’m coming with you,” Hugh repeated as the door opened. “Oh, no, sorry, Hugh, really. But I’m in a hurry, and you haven’t an overcoat.” “That doesn’t matter. I don’t need more coddling than an orchid, I hope.” A great spray of orchids was drooping from a crystal vase between the windows at the far side of the lighted, heated interior of the luxurious car. Joan hesitated a perceptible second but then said with a definiteness which had become distinctly chilly under his aggression: “Positively, I can’t send Amos back with you. I’ve kept him out till dawn every night since I came home. He’s going to put the car up now. Good night, Prescott.” She turned back from the car step and put her ungloved hand on Enderly’s arm. “Send me those chapters, won’t you? I’ll read them at once and write you. We’ll see each other too, soon. In New York. _Auf Wiedersehen._” Then she brushed past Hugh into the car. But she moved, of necessity, to the farther end of the seat, for he had followed her. “I’d like nothing better than the walk back,” he assured her. “Just what I need.” And as Joan reached a finger to a button which plunged them into immediate velvet darkness, he added more tensely in a lowered voice, “Joan! It’s three months, two days and eight hours since we have been alone together. You must forgive me.” Joan sighed. “Well, my dear, if it’s worth pneumonia to you and all that—for Amos _is_ going to bed, I assure you,—I’d like nothing better than your company. I’ve missed you a—a little—too.” They were sliding away, soundlessly rolling from under Wild Acres’ portico into the intimate night. Chapter XIII