"Uncle David!" Joan exclaimed, jumping up; "and by the manner of his toot I get an impression of exhilaration. "Hello, Uncle Davey!" For Martin was filling the long window with his big presence. He smiled on Joan--he did it very naturally these days. The girl was becoming strangely dear and companionable; then he looked at Doris as he always did, eagerly, gratefully. "Jump into your coat and hat," he said to her with a ring in his voice; "I've just had a telegram. Bud's coming!" "Oh! David," Doris's face flushed rosily. "And you want me to go with you to meet him. I _am_ glad." "Yes," Martin replied. Doris was already on her way from the room. Joan dropped to the hearth and resumed her rubbing. So the inevitable was upon her! She must not flinch! She wondered if this was the last dropped stitch she must take up? "Want me to go, too, Uncle David?" she asked, keeping her back rigid. "No," Martin was regarding the straight set shoulders and the pretty cropped hair. "No! You have too shocking an effect upon young men. They look as if they had seen you before! They must take you gradually." Martin laughed and lighted a cigar. He was recalling Raymond's face the night Joan had first appeared before him. Joan struggled to keep control of the situation--she suddenly smeared her face with her sooty fingers and turned with a grimace. "Am I discovered even in this disguise?" she said. Then: "Uncle Davey, I believe you have your private opinion of me still." "I have. I'll tell you now what it is--your face needs washing." "I mean--really!" the smudges acted as a mask and diverted attention. "I wager you think girls like me--the me that _was_, the working girls--are, generally speaking, hounding young men on the matrimonial trail." "Not necessarily _that_ trail," Martin was teasing. "You're all wrong, Uncle Davey, as far as most of them are concerned. They're young and love a good time and some of them have to learn a lot--learn not to play on volcanoes. But for downright, running-to-earth methods, look to such girls as Nan. They have the tide with them. Men, unless they're there to be caught, better watch out!" "Oh! come, child, don't be sinister." "I'm not, Uncle David," Joan's eyes shone; she was thinking of Patricia; "but you, everybody, lose a lot if they do not really know the truth about women--the real truth." "My dear," David was quite serious, "I'm no longer hard or misjudging--I was frightened at your aunt's methods with you, but you're proving me wrong every day." "You should have trusted her more, Uncle David." "Yes, you are right, in part. I should have trusted her less--in some ways." "About me?" "No. About herself." Martin flecked the ashes from his cigar. "And now," he said with a huge sigh that seemed to sweep all regrets before it, "go and wash your face!" Joan ran away, and when she came back the room was empty and the _honk-honk_ of Martin's horn sounded down the river road.