After a week at a hotel, while she settled herself in business, Patricia had free hours for home-hunting, and she and Joan made a lark of it. Patricia had the enviable power of shutting business from her own time, and she quickly discerned that Joan needed prompt and definite interests to hold her to what they had undertaken. And the venture had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions to Patricia. She feverishly desired it to be a success. She realized that Joan was being torn by conflicting emotions while she was idle and alone. She asked no questions; appeared not to notice Joan's teary eyes and pensive mouth. Wisely she made Joan feel her own need of her--to that Joan responded at once. "Joan, I never had a home in my life before," she confided while they flitted from one apartment to another. "I used to walk around in strange cities and peep in people's windows, just to see homes! "After my father died, I rustled about on the little money he left, and I got to sneaking into other women's homes. I didn't mean harm at first, but after awhile it seemed so easy to sneak and so hard to--make good! But down in my heart, as truly as God hears me, I've been homesick for--what I never had." "Pat! Of all things--you are crying!" Joan looked frightened. "Well, let me cry!" sniveled Patricia. "I've never given myself that luxury, either." For a moment there was silence broken only by Patricia's sniffs. Then: "What do your folks say about it, Joan?" "I haven't sent the big letter yet--it's written. I don't want them to say anything until I'm fixed. I only told them of our leaving New York." "Whew!" ejaculated Patricia. "You certainly run your career free-handed." "Aunt Dorrie will take it like the darling she is," Joan mused on, "and she'll make Nan and Doctor Martin see it. When she gave me my chance she did not tie a string to me--not even the string of her love. We understand each other perfectly." "I suppose you know," Patricia gave a sigh, "but I don't think an explanation would hurt any and I don't want her to blame me more than I deserve, Joan." "Blame you, Pat? Why, how could she?" "Oh, I don't know. She might get to thinking on her own hook if you don't give her the facts. Joan, send the letter at once!" So Joan dispatched the letter, and it had the effect of depressing Nancy to an alarming degree and, in consequence, of spurring Doris to renewed effort. She was perturbed by the lack of what she knew. She had her doubts of Patricia; the sudden flight had an aspect of rout--what did it mean? Her reply to Joan, however, was much what Martin's would have been to his nephew. She accepted and took on faith what Joan had explained--or failed to explain. She laid emphasis on plans for the coming winter and referred to Joan's promise to give herself seriously to her music. "Either in New York or there, my dear, begin your real work. It is all well enough to look about before you decide, but there is a time for decision."