Joan, on her side, had stated that she would never be engaged to Johnny until his mother consented, and that until they were engaged they must behave exactly as though they were not engaged, that is, never see one another alone, never write letters that might not be read by any one; but she had also asserted that no representations on the part of anybody that she was ruining Johnny, or that she was a nasty little intriguer, or that nice girls didn't behave "so," would make the slightest difference to her; that she knew what she was and Johnny knew what _he_ was, and that was enough for both of them. Johnny on his side had said that he would be patient for a time under this arrangement, but that the time would not be a very long one, and that she couldn't object to accepting a little ring that he had bought for her, that she needn't wear it, but just keep it beside her to remind her of him. But Joan had said that to take the ring would be as good as to be engaged, and that therefore she would not take it, but that he could keep it ready for the day of their betrothal. She had come home, through the lovely evening, in such a state of happiness that she was forced to tell Mrs. Combermere all about it, and Mrs. Combermere had been a darling and assured her that she was quite right in all that she had done, and that it made her, Mrs. Combermere, feel quite young again, and that she would help them in every way that she could, and parting at the Arden Gate, she had kissed Joan just as though she were her very own daughter. So Joan, shining with happiness, came back to the house. It seemed very quiet after the sun and glitter and laughter of the Flower Show. She went straight up to her room at the top of the house, washed her face and hands, brushed her hair and put on her white frock. As she came downstairs the clock struck half-past seven. In the hall she met Gladys. "Please, miss," said Gladys, "is dinner to be kept back?" "Why," said Joan, "isn't mother in?" "No, miss, she went out about six o'clock and she hasn't come in." "Isn't father in?" "No, miss." "Did she say that she'd be late?" "No, miss." "Oh, well--we must wait until mother comes in." "Yes, miss." She saw then a letter on the hall-table. She picked it up. It was addressed to her father, a note left by somebody. She thought nothing of that--notes were so often left; the hand-writing was exactly like her mother's, but of course it could not be hers. She went into the drawing- room. Here the silence was oppressive. She walked up and down, looking out of the long windows at the violet dusk. Gladys came in to draw the blinds. "Didn't mother say _anything_ about when she'd be in?" "No, miss." "She left no message for me?" "No, miss. Your mother seemed in a hurry like." "She didn't ask where I was?" "No, miss." "Did she go out with father?" "No, miss--your father went out a quarter of an hour earlier."