"It's etiquette to go in, if the house is empty." It was Constance Drew's voice. "St. Ange and New York have different ideas. Leave things as you find them, that's the only social commandment here." A hand was on the latch. "Connie, I cannot! It does not seem decent." _That_ voice sank deep into the listening heart behind the barrier. "Well, then, I'll write her a letter. I'm sorry I asked Jock Filmer to take a verbal invitation. She might think--" "That's better, Connie, and while you and Ralph drive over to Hillcrest this afternoon, I'll bring it here; perhaps she will be at home then." Joyce heard them turn. She watched them until the pine trees hid them; then her heart beat feebly. Presently she went to the table, and there her eyes fell on the letter Billy had brought. Quietly she took it up, opened it, and read it once, twice, then the third time. Finally it dropped to her feet, and, with hands groping before her, Joyce staggered to Gaston's deep chair and fell heavily into it. CHAPTER XVII Joyce did not faint, nor did she lose consciousness. A dull quiet possessed her, and, had she tried to explain her state of mind, she would have said she was thinking things out. In reality Destiny, or whatever we choose to call that power which controls things that _must be_, had the woman completely in its grip. Whatever she was to do would be done without any actual forethought or preparation; she would realize that afterward as we all do when we have passed through a crisis and have done better, perhaps, than our poor, unassisted thought might have accomplished for us. Joyce was on the wheel, and the wheel was going at a tremendous speed. There was no time for plotting or planning, with all the strength that was in her, the girl was clinging, clinging to some unseen, central truth, while she was being whirled through a still place crowded with more or less distinguishable facts that she dared not close her eyes to. One cruel thing made her cringe in the deep chair. She was losing her clear, sweet vision of that blessed night when Gaston and she had stood transfigured! If only she could have held to that, all would have been so simple--but with that fading glory gone she would be alone in a barren, cheerless place to act not merely for herself, but for Gaston also. She was no longer the beautiful woman in the golden dress; nor he the man of the illumined face and pleading arms. No; she was old Jared's wild little daughter; Jude Lauzoon's brutalized and dishonoured wife. Nothing, nothing could do away with those awful facts. He, the man she loved--who thought in one wild hour that he loved her--was not of her world nor of her kind. He had given, given, given to her of his best and purest. God! how he had given. He had cast a glamour over her crudeness by his power and goodness, but underneath was--Jared's daughter and Jude's wife.