Joan laughed at his sudden gravity and ran up the wide steps and put her finger on the bell. "I've written down your telephone number," she said, "and memorized your address. I'll call you up at three o'clock this afternoon, and if you've nothing else to do, you may take me for a walk in the Park." "I sha'n't have anything else to do." The door was opened. The footman was obviously English, with the art of footmanism in his blood. "Is Mrs. Gilbert Palgrave at home?" asked Joan as if the question were entirely superfluous. "No, miss." "Are you sure?" "Quite sure, miss. Mrs. Palgrave left for Boston yesterday on account of hillness in the family, miss." There was an awkward and appalled silence. Little did the man suspect the kind of blow that his statement contained. Joan darted an agonized look at Martin. "But Mr. Palgrave is at 'ome, miss." And that galvanized the boy into action. He had met Gilbert Palgrave out hunting. He had seen the impertinent, cocksure way in which he ran his eyes over women. He clutched the handle of the case and said: "That's all right, thanks. Miss Ludlow will write to Mrs. Palgrave." Then he turned and went down the steps to the car. Trying to look unconcerned, Joan followed. "Get in, quick," said Martin. "We'll talk as we go." "But why? If I don't stay here, where am I to stay?" "I don't know. Please get in." Joan stood firm. The color had come back to her face, and a look of something like anger had taken the place of fright. "I didn't tell you to march off like that. Gilbert's here." "That's why we're going," Said Martin. "I don't understand." Her eyes were blazing. "I know you don't. You can't stay in that house. It isn't done." "I can do it, and I must do it. Do you suppose I'm going back with my tail between my legs?" "If we argue here, we shall collect a crowd." He got into the car and held out his hand. Joan ignored it but followed him in. She was angry, puzzled, disappointed, nonplussed. Alice had no right to be away on such an occasion. Everything had looked so easy and smooth-sailing. Even Martin had changed into a different man, and was ordering her about. If he thought he could drive her back to that prison again, he was considerably wrong. She would never go back, never. The car was running slowly. "Have you any other friends in town?" asked Martin, who seemed to be trying to hide an odd kind of excitement. "No," said Joan. "Alice is my only friend here. Drive to some place where I can call up Gilbert Palgrave and explain the whole thing. What does it matter about my being alone? If I don't mind, who should? Please do as I say. There's no other place for me to go to, and wild horses sha'n't drag me back."