“He proposed to you, did he, and in the rain? How charming! I suppose he kissed you too?” “Yes,” replied Joan, “twice.” And slowly she raised her eyes and fixed them upon his face. What Henry said immediately after that announcement he was never quite able to remember, but it was something strong and almost incoherent. Set on fire by his smouldering jealousy, suddenly his passion flamed up in the magnetised atmosphere of her presence, for on that night her every word and look seemed to be magnetic and to pierce him through and through. For a minute or more he denounced her, and all the while Joan stood silent, watching him with her wide eyes, the light shining on her face. At last he ceased and she spoke. “I do not understand you,” she said. “Why are you angry with me? What do you mean?” “I don’t know,” he gasped. “I have no right to be angry. I think I must be mad, for I can’t even recollect what I have been saying. I suppose that I was astonished to hear that you were engaged to Mr. Rock, that’s all. Please forgive me and forget my words. And, if you don’t mind, perhaps you had better go away.” “I don’t wish to forget them, although I dare say that they mean nothing; and I am not engaged to Mr. Rock—I hate him,” answered Joan in the same slow voice; adding, “If you have patience, will you listen to a story? I should like to tell it you before we part, for I think that we have been good friends, and friends should know each other, so that they may remember one another truly when their affection has become nothing but a memory.” Henry nodded; and still very deliberately, as though she wished to avoid all appearance of haste or of excitement, Joan sat herself down upon a footstool in front of the dying fire and began to speak, always keeping her sad eyes fixed upon his face.