He rose to obey with alacrity, but before he left the room Joan saw with a fresh tremor that he was careful to lock the kitchen door and to put the key into his pocket. Evidently he suspected her of a desire to escape. In a few more minutes the meal was ready, and they were seated _tête-à-tête_ in the parlour. When he had helped her Joan asked him if she should pour out the tea. “No, never mind that wash,” he said; “I’ve got something that I have been keeping against this day.” And going to a cupboard he produced glasses and two bottles, one of champagne and the other of brandy. Opening the first, he filled two tumblers with the wine, giving her one of them. “Now, dear, you shall drink a toast,” he said. “Repeat it after me. ‘Your health, dearest husband, and long may we live together.’” Having no option but to fall into his humour, or run the risk of worse things, Joan murmured the words, although they almost choked her, and drank the wine—for which she was very thankful, for by now it was past seven o’clock, and she had touched nothing since the morning. Then she made shift to swallow some food, washing it down with sips of champagne. If she ate little, however, her husband ate less, though she noticed with alarm that he did not spare the bottle. “It isn’t often that I drink wine, Joan,” he said, “for I hold it sinful waste not but what there’ll always be wine for you if you want it. But this is a night to make merry on, seeing that a man isn’t married every day,” and he finished the last of the champagne. “Oh! Joan,” he added, “it’s like a dream to think that you’ve come to me at last. You don’t know how I’ve longed for you all these months; and now you are mine, mine, my own beautiful Joan for those whom God has joined together no man can put asunder, however much they may try. I kept my oath to you faithful, didn’t I, Joan? and now it’s your turn to keep yours to me. You remember what you swore that you would be a true and good wife to me, and that you wouldn’t see nothing of that villain who deceived you. I suppose that you haven’t seen him during all these months, Joan?” “If you mean Sir Henry Graves,” she answered, “I met him to-day as I walked to Monk’s Vale station.” “Did you now?” he said, with a curious writhing of the lips: “that’s strange, isn’t it, that you should happen to go to Monk’s Lodge without saying nothing to your husband about it, and that there you should happen to meet him within a few hours of his getting back to England? I suppose you didn’t speak to him, did you?” “I spoke a few words.” “Ah! a few words. Well, that was wrong of you, Joan, for it’s against your oath; but I dare say that they were to tell him just to keep clear in future?” Joan nodded, for she dared not trust herself to speak.