Joan bore Peregrine no grudge. It was not a case of forgiveness: Joan had nothing to forgive. Peregrine and she had been undone—by a third party. The wretched, stumbling note that had broken her heart was in his handwriting, but it was not his note. Their common enemy had written it—the future Mrs. Below. Joan hated Mrs. Below with a bitter, undying hate. She hoped—prayed that Peregrine was happy: that he never could be so happy as he would have been with her she had no manner of doubt. He was her man. It follows that when after seven years Joan Purchase Atlee encountered Peregrine _and found his eyes lacklustre_ she was profoundly moved. Her letter to her twin-sister in distant Philadelphia shall speak for itself. . . . . _I’ve seen him, Betty—at last. He’s here, in this hotel—Peregrine Carey Below, my man. Two hours ago I stepped out of the elevator almost into his arms. I nearly fainted. The hall seemed to heel over and I had to walk uphill. Betty_, he—didn’t—know—me. . . . _That hurt rather, at first. You know. Nasty jar to one’s pride. The answer is that I’ve changed even more than I knew. After all, seven years isn’t a week-end. . . . But that’s by the way. The sting soon died in a sense of immeasurable relief. Truly Providence is wise. Supposing he had known me. What a hellish position it would have been! Melodrama with an edge. . . . Never mind, Peregrine didn’t know me, and that’s that. But, Betty, he’s miserable—so very wretched. The moment I saw him I knew. He’s going grey at the temples, but that’s nothing—he’s rising thirty-seven. But his eyes, Betty, his eyes. I could have wept to see them. Dull and strained they were—dull and strained and listless . . . his blessed, gentle eyes. . . . Don’t think I’m such a fool as to think it’s because of me. If it were, he’d have known me. No. It’s his wife, Betty—Mrs. Carey Below. She’s making my man wretched. Seven years ago she smashed my life, and now she’s smashing his. . . . I don’t know how long it’s been going on. I don’t know anything—yet. But I saw them go out this morning, and I had a good look at her. Man-mad, Betty. Tough as you make ’em, with a mouth like a steel trap. Rather like Nesta Dudoy, but better-looking. No use for women at all. Very well dressed, and her clothes well put on. Hair too good to be true and a nice skin._ And Peregrine fears her, _Betty. There wasn’t a taxi or something, and he was all hot and bothered and ready to cry. ‘I ordered it,’ he kept saying, ‘nearly an hour ago.’ She just purred back at him, with veiled eyes. . . . It was really painful. Peregrine rattled because she must wait thirty seconds whilst they sent for a cab! One’s seen it before, of course: but not in a man like him. He’s so quiet and reserved and strong naturally that only a proper shock should be able to shake him up—visibly, at any rate.