He hardly waited for the sibilant assurance before putting back the receiver. He went round to the garage himself. This was the first time he had driven Joan in his car. It might be the last. Harry was at the bottom of the stairs as Joan came down. "You're not going out?" he asked. She was still in day clothes, wearing a hat. "Yes, I am, Harry." "Where? Why?" She laid her hand on his arm. "Don't grudge Gilbert one evening,--his last. I've been perfectly rotten to him all along." "Palgrave? Are you going out with Palgrave?" "Yes, to dine somewhere. I want to, Harry, oh, for lots of reasons. You know one. Don't stop me." Her voice broke a little. "But not with Palgrave." "Why?" "I saw him dodge out of the telephone room a minute ago. He looked--queer. Don't go, Joan." "I must," she said and went to the door. He was after her and caught hold of her arm. "Joan, don't go. I don't want you to." "I must," she said again. "Surely you can understand? I have to get away from myself." "But won't I do?" "It's Gilbert's turn," she said. "Let go, Harry dear." It was good to know that she hadn't hurt this boy. "I don't like it. Please stay," but he let her go, and watched her down the steps and into the car, with unaccountable misgiving. He had seen Gilbert's face. And he saw it again under the strong light of the entrance--triumphant. For minutes after the car had gone, with a wave from Joan, he stood still, with an icy hand on his heart. "I don't like it," he repeated. "I wish to God I'd had the right to stop her." She thought that he didn't love her, and he had done his best to obey. But he did love her, more than Martin, it seemed, more than Gilbert, he thought, and by this time she was well on her way to--what? PART FOUR THE PAYMENT I It was one of those golden evenings that sometimes follows a hot clear day--one of those rare evenings which linger in the memory when summer has slipped away and which come back into the mind like a smile, an endearment or a broad sweet melody, renewing optimism and replenishing faith. The sun had gone, but its warm glow lingered in a sky that was utterly unspotted. The quiet unruffled trees in all the rich green of early maturity stood out against it almost as though they were painted on canvas. The light was so true that distances were brought up to the eye. Far-away sounds came closely to the ear. The murmur from the earth gathered like that of a multitude of voices responding to prayers.