“I could not get away. I wanted to; but there is no other door to the room. That is why I came out here when I woke. … I could not get my boots which the maid had taken last night, and I wanted to get away as quickly as possible. And, Father, being there, though I had to move about dressing myself, I could not help hearing everything!” Her father had evidently expected that she would say something more, for as she stopped there he looked at her expectantly. There was a sort of dry sob in his throat. Athlyne stood still and silent; he hardly dared to breathe lest he should unintentionally thwart Joy’s purpose. For with all his instincts he realised that she had a purpose. He knew that she understood her father and that she was the most potent force to deal with him; and knowing this he felt that the best thing he could do would be to leave her quite free and unhampered to take her own course. He kept his eyes on her face, gazing at her unwinkingly. Her face was fixed--not stern but set to a purpose. Somehow at that moment he began to realise how well he understood her. Without more help than his eyes could give him, he seemed to follow the workings of her mind. For her mind was changing. At the first her expression was of flinty fixedness; but as she continued to look at the old man it softened; and with the softening her intentioned silence gave way. Her lover’s thoughts translated thus: “I will protect my--him against my father. He has threatened him; he is forcing him to death. I shall not help him by sparing him a pang, an awkwardness. And yet--why that? He is an old man--and my father! That white hair demands respect. He is angry--hard and untender now; but his life has been a tender one to me--and he is my father! Though I am determined to save my lover--my husband, I need not in the doing cause that white head to sink in shame; I can spare him the pang of what he may think ingratitude in me. And, after all, he has what must seem to him just cause of offence. … He cannot--will not understand. … He is brave and proud, and has a code of honour which is more than a religion. And he my lover--my husband is brave too. And as unyielding as my father. And he is willing to die--for me. To die for me--_my_ honour _my_ happiness. Though his dying is worse--far worse than death to me. … But he is dying bravely, and I--that was to have been his wife--must die bravely, worthily too. If he can suffer and die in silence, so too must I. …” It seemed a natural sequence of thought when she said to her father: