Her primitive love for this man held no part in her present condition. Whatever he consigned her to, that must she accept. St. Ange standards were well known to her. The people would be quick enough to spurn personal responsibility for her, but if she were independent of them--well, they were not the ones to hold resentment! No moral training had ever had part in this girl's life; nothing held her now but a fear, born of her past experience with man's authority, as to her future fate. She was abandoned and disowned. Her recent loss and grief had bereft her of any personal pride and hope--like a slave before its master, she faced Gaston--and mutely waited. The unexpected happened. Gaston laughed. Laughed in the old, unconcerned way; but presently the rising awe and question in the lovely eyes looking into his own, sobered him. He began to understand and to get her point of view. He stood straighter, and a new expression passed over his face. "Sit down, Joyce," he said, urging her gently toward the chair, "I must mend the fire. Things look as if they had fallen to pieces, but they have not. Believe me--they have not. For heaven's sake stop trembling; every shudder you give is an insult to me. There, there, you don't understand, but, it's coming out all right. It was only when others were meddling that we got on the rocks. I've got the rudder in my hand now, and by God's help," he was fiercely flinging on the logs, "we'll sail out into the open with colours flying. When did you eat last?" She was watching him with alert, feverish eyes. Like an ensnared animal she felt a frenzied eagerness to be ready for the snarer's next move. "Eat?" she faltered, "why, why, I have forgotten. Yesterday--to-day--oh! does it matter? I'm not hungry." "Well, I am. I always wanted a snatch after the play." "The--the play?" Joyce leaned forward. "After an infernal row, if you like that better. They both play the dickens with your digestion." Bringing out the food, and making coffee eased the tension of the situation and after they had eaten, for Joyce struggled to follow his example, the atmosphere was less electrical. The hands of the clock got around to ten-thirty; it was of no consequence, however, and then Gaston cleared the table, kicked a rebellious log back to its duty, and drew a chair beside Joyce. The little bruised arm lay stretched pitifully along the arm of the chair. Gaston winced as he saw it, and he laid his strong, warm hand over the cold fingers that did not draw away.