Joan put the letter into her pocket. She would debate in her mind whether she would read it or no. “A letter from Connie, dear,” said Helen. “She is coming over this afternoon and bringing Ellice Brand with her. Joan, it is a week or more since Johnny was here.” “Yes, about a week I think,” said Joan indifferently. She was thinking meanwhile of the letter in her pocket. Helen looked at her. She wanted to put questions; but, being a sensible woman, she did not. She had a great affection for Johnny. What woman could avoid having an affection and a regard for him? He was one of those fine, clean things that men and women, too, must like if they are themselves possessed of decency and appreciation of the good. Yes, she was fond of Johnny, and she had grown very fond of late of this girl. She looked under the somewhat cold surface, and she recognised a warm, a tender and a loving nature, that had been suppressed for lack of something on which to lavish that wealth of tenderness that she held stored up in her heart. Quite what part Hugh Alston had played in the life of Joan, Helen did not know. But she hoped for Johnny. She wanted to see these two come together. She was not above worldly considerations, for few good women are. It would be a fine thing for Johnny, with his straitened income and his habit of backing losers—from an agricultural point of view; but the main thing, as she honestly believed, was that these two could be very happy together. So she wondered a little, and puzzled a little, and worried a little why Johnny Everard should suddenly have left off paying almost daily visits to Starden. “I like Connie, and I shall be glad to see her,” said Joan. “I wish Johnny were coming instead of—” “So do I!” said Joan heartily. “I like him, I think, even more than I like Connie. There is something so—so honest and straight and good about him. Something that makes one feel, ‘Here is a man to rely on, a man one can ask for help when in distress.’ Sometimes—” She paused, then suddenly she rose, and with a smile to Helen, went out. So there had been no quarrel, why should there have been? Certainly there had not been. Joan had spoken handsomely of Johnny, and she had said only what was true. “I shall tell Connie exactly what Joan said, and probably Connie will repeat it to Johnny,” Helen thought, which was exactly what she wished Connie would do. In her own room Joan hesitated a moment, then tore open the envelope, and drew out Mr. Philip Slotman’s letter. “MY DEAR JOAN (her eyes flashed at the insolent familiarity of it). Since my visit of a week ago, when you received me so charmingly, I have constantly thought of you and your beautiful home, and you cannot guess how pleased I am to feel that the wheel of fortune had taken a turn to lift you high above all want and poverty.” She went on reading steadily, her lips compressed, her face hard and bitter.