Nevertheless, she and Wint talked of matters perfectly commonplace for most of that evening together. They were apt to talk of commonplace things in these days; because safety lay in the commonplace. There was a strange balance of emotions between Wint and Joan. A little thing might have tipped it either way. At times, Wint wished to bring matters to an issue; he wished to cry out to Joan that he loved her. But he was restrained by a desperate fear that she was not ready to hear him say this. He was afraid she would cast him out once more. And--he could not bear the thought of that. It was something to be able to see her, talk with her, be near her. He dared not risk losing this much. Thus they talked of ordinary matters, till Wint got up to go at last. Joan went out on the porch with him; he stopped, on one of the steps, a little below her. He had said good-by before Joan found courage. She asked, then: “Wint! Will you let me?... There’s something I want to ask you.” He was surprised; his heart began to pound in his throat. “To ask me?” he repeated. “Why--all right, Joan. What is it?” “Are you and Routt pretty good friends, Wint?” “Yes,” he said, at once. “Jack’s the best friend I’ve got.” “Are you sure?” “Of course. What’s the idea, Joan?” She said reluctantly: “I don’t know. Only--I don’t seem to trust him. I don’t like him. I’m afraid of him.” He laughed. “Good Lord! Jack’s harmless; he’s a prince.” “I don’t think he’s as loyal to you as you are to him,” she said. Wint exclaimed impatiently: “The way you girls get down on a fellow! Jack’s all right.” Wint’s impatience made Joan quieter and more sure of herself. “I’m not sure,” she repeated, and smiled a little wistfully. “Just--don’t trust him too far, Wint.” “I’d trust him with all I’ve got,” Wint said flatly. “I think you’re--I’m surprised at you, Joan.” The stubborn anger roused in the morning when Joan came upon him with Agnes reawoke in Wint. His jaw set, and his eyes were hard. Joan was troubled; she wanted to say more, but she did not know how. And--she could not forget Hetty. She had not meant to speak to Wint of Hetty; but Joan was woman enough to be unable to hold her tongue. Also, Wint’s loyalty to Routt had angered her; she was willing to hurt him--as men and women are always willing to hurt the thing they love. She said slowly: “Did you know people are beginning to talk about Hetty Morfee, Wint? You and Hetty!” Wint’s anger flamed; he flung up his hand disgustedly. “You women. You’re always ready to jump on each other. Why can’t this town let Hetty alone?” “I only meant--” Joan began. “I don’t care what you meant,” Wint told her. “You ought not to pass gossip on, Joan. I hate it.” “I don’t see why you have to defend her,” she protested; and he said hotly: “I’m not defending her. She doesn’t need defending. If she did, I would, though. Hetty’s all right.” Joan drew back a little into the shadow of the porch. After a moment, she said: “Good night, Wint.”