She had been served with the bag, it had been wrapped in paper for her, and now Helen came out. She had lingered as long as she could to give this man every chance. “I am afraid I have been a long time, Joan,” she began. Hugh turned to her eagerly. “Mrs.—Everard,” he said, “I have been trying to induce Miss Meredyth to come and have lunch with me.” “Oh!” Joan cried. The word lunch had never passed his lips till now, and she looked at him angrily. “I suggest Prince’s,” he said. “Let’s get a taxi and go there now.” “Thank you, I do not require any lunch,” Joan said. “But I do, my dear. I am simply famished,” said Helen. It was like a base betrayal, but she felt that she must help this good-looking young man who looked at her so pleadingly. “And it is always so much nicer to have a gentleman escort, isn’t it?” “You can’t refuse now, Joan,” Hugh said. Joan! The name suggested to Helen that Joan had not spoken quite the truth when she had told General Bartholomew that she and this man were practically strangers. A strange man does not usually call a young girl by her Christian name. “As you like,” Joan said indifferently. She looked at Hugh resentfully. “I do not consider it is either very clever or very considerate,” she said in a low voice, intended for him alone. “I am sorry, but—but I couldn’t let you go yet. You—you don’t understand, Joan!” he stammered. She shrugged her shoulders; she went with them because she must. She could not create a scene, but she would take her revenge. She promised herself that, and she did. She scarcely spoke a word during the luncheon. She ate nothing; she looked about her with an air of indifference. Twice she deliberately yawned behind her hand, hoping that he would notice; and he did, and it hurt him cruelly, as she hoped it might. But she kept the worst sting for the last. “Please,” she said to the waiter, “make out the bills separately—mine and this lady’s together, and the gentleman’s by itself.” “Joan!” he said, as the waiter went his way, and his voice was shocked and hurt. “Oh really, you could hardly expect that I would wish you to spend any of your—eight thousand a year on me!” Hugh flushed. He bent his head. His eight thousand a year that once he had held out as a bait to her, and yet, Heaven knew, he had not meant it so. He had only meant to be frank with her. He was hurt and stung, as she meant he should be, and seeing it, her heart misgave her, and she was sorry. But it was too late, and she must not confess weakness now. There was a cold look in his face, a bitterness about his mouth she had never seen before. When he rose he held out his hand to Mrs. Everard; he thanked her for coming here with him, and then he gave Joan the coldest of cold bows. He held no hand out to her, he had no speech for her. Only one word, one word that once before he had flung at her, and now flung into her face again.