As might have been expected, the end of it was that he went to see her that night. For Wint was still half boy, with a boy’s impatience; and he had been lonely for Joan for so long. After supper, with the long evening before him, and nothing to do, he thought of going to Joan. He swore he wouldn’t go; but he wanted to, so badly. Why shouldn’t he? She had asked him. He wouldn’t and he would, and he wouldn’t and he would.... In the end, he decided to walk out to her home and see if he could see her, through the window. There was snow on the ground, it was fairly cold. He bundled up in overcoat and cap and filled a pipe and lighted it, and set out. He would just walk past the house, come back another way, go to bed.... That would do no harm. But even while he tried to tell himself this was what he meant to do, he knew that he would not come back without seeing Joan--if the thing were possible. And when he got to the house, he saw that it was possible. The shades were up at the sitting-room window; he could see her, reading before the fire. She was alone. So Wint went reluctantly up the walk from the street, and he hesitated at the steps, and then he went up the steps, stamping, and knocked at the door. He heard Joan stirring, inside. Then the door opened, and Joan was there before him. The light behind her shone through her hair; her eyes were dark and steady. The light fell on his face, and she said quietly: “Hello, Wint. I’m--glad you came.” Wint took off his cap, and held it in his hand. She thought he looked very like a boy. He said nothing; and Joan moved a little to one side and bade him come in. He went in, like a man walking in his sleep, and she shut the door behind him. Wint stood in the hall as though he did not know what to do. He wanted to run; but the door was shut. She said: “Take off your coat.” So he did, and laid it on a chair in the hall, and put his cap on top of it. Joan told him to come into the sitting room; and he said huskily: “All right.” So they went in and sat down together before the fire. And Wint wished he had not come. He crossed his legs one way, then he crossed them the other. He folded his arms, he folded his hands in his lap, he cleared his throat, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He did not look at Joan; but Joan watched him, and by and by she smiled a little, and her smile seemed like a caress upon his bent head. Wint said abruptly: “Your people all right?” “Yes,” Joan told him. He muttered angrily that that was good; and silence fell upon them again. He twisted in this silence, like a caterpillar on a pin. He was immensely relieved when Joan spoke at last. “What shall we talk about, Wint?” she asked steadily. “Do you want to talk about your--fight? What are you doing?” “No,” he said dourly, staring at the fire. Joan watched him, not resenting his sullenness, because she had understanding. After a little, she said gently: “I saw your mother the other day.”