He returned to Joan with--until he recrossed the threshold of his study--a thought ironic concerning the inconsistency of Helena's veneration of caste with her union to fat, good-natured, pretentiously commonplace George Tankerville. For that matter, the Matthias dynasty itself was descended from a needy, out-at-elbows English adventurer who had one day founded the family fortunes by taking title to Manhattan real estate in settlement of a gambling debt and on the next had died in a duel--the only act of thoughtful provision against improvidence registered in his biography. So Matthias wasn't much disposed to reverence his pedigree: social position, at least as a claim upon his consideration, meant little to him: the only class distinctions he was inclined to acknowledge were those created by the intellect and of the heart. In his private world people were either intelligent or stupid, either kindly or (stupidly) egoistic. To the first order, with humility of soul he aspired; for the other he was, without condescension, heartily sorry.... But there was nothing half so analytical as this in his temper when he rejoined Joan: only wonder and rejoicing and delight in her. He found her near the door, tense and hesitant, as though poised on the point of imminent flight. There was in her wide eyes a look almost of consternation; they seemed to glow, shot with the fire of her lambent thoughts. A doubting thumb and forefinger clipped her chin; a thin line of exquisite whiteness shone between her scarlet lips. Closing the door, he opened his arms. She came to them swiftly and confidently. Doubts and fears vanished in the joy of his embrace; she was no longer lonely in a world unfriendly. From the eloquent deeps of their submerged and blended senses, words now and again floated up like bubbles to the surface of consciousness: "You still love me?" "I love you." "It wasn't pity--impulse--Jack--?" "It was--love. It is love. It shall be love, dear heart, forever and always...." "You _told_ her--your aunt--we were engaged!" "Aren't we?" A convulsive tightening of her arms.... A whisper barely articulate: "You really ... want me ... enough to marry me?" "I love you." "But...." "Isn't that enough?" "But I am--only me: nothing: a girl who dares to love you." "Could any man ask more?" "You.... What will your friends say?... You'll be ashamed of me." "Hush! That's treason." "But you will--you won't be able to help it--" A faint, half-hearted cry of protest: words indistinguishable, silenced by lips on lips; a space of quiet.... "How shall I make myself worthy of you?" "Love me always." "How shall I dare to meet your family, your friends--?" "You will be my wife." "But that won't be for a long time...." "Yes, we must wait--be patient, Joan." She lifted her head, wondering. "But don't fear; love will sustain us." "I will be patient. You'll have to give me time to learn how not to disgrace you--" "What nonsense!"