Joan cut the ropes, sick with relief. He was so calm that she thought he must have been bluffing the crowd. "Dad! Dad! You're not really hurt, then?" He smiled up at her. "Not hurt, my child. Killed," he said, dramatic to the last.... The negro did not run. In return for his defender's heroism, he performed a small act of heroism himself--not so small either, perhaps, considering that his life depended upon what use he made of the next few hours. "I'll tote him to de car, lady," he offered, pantingly; and delayed further to give the paralyzed chauffeur instructions as to where to find the nearest doctor. Joan sat on the floor of the limousine with her father's head in her lap, only half aware of his labored, fluttering breath, of the blood upon her dress, of her step-mother's wild pleadings with him just to look at her, just to say one word to his Effie May, who loved him-- She was strangely exalted. Her mind seemed to have slipped into a region of consciousness where things were made suddenly clear to her, troubling questions answered, doubts set forever aside. "A gentleman," she kept repeating to herself. "A gentleman!" It seemed to her in that moment a great thing to have been born a gentleman, even if one became nothing more; to know that whatever the fortunes of life, one would be able to meet them gallantly and unafraid, because of a something within stronger than personal will or habit: the sum of the wills and habits of many ancestors. She was sorry for the _canaille_, the Effie Mays, who had no such inner power to rely upon.... As they carried him into a doctor's office, Richard Darcy's eyes opened. They passed the face of his frantic wife unseeing, and came to rest upon Joan in some anxiety. "You all right, Dollykins? Must not allow--mere trifle like this--upset--" "Nothing shall upset me, Father," she said, smiling at him. "Children so necessary--family traditions--" She bent close to him. "My son is going to be proud to carry on the family traditions, dear." His face cleared. "Good girl!" There was a little bubbling breath. "I promised Mary--" But Joan never learned what promise it was that he had made, and doubtless broken, to his Mary. CHAPTER XLII Joan herself, like other self-reliant people, sometimes made promises which she was unable to keep. She had made such a one to her father. Despite her best efforts, the fact and manner of his death did manage to upset her, disastrously. The day came not long afterwards when for hours, years, they seemed to her, Joan was aware of nothing but pain, and of the fact that miserable, terrified Archie must somehow be got out of the way before she lost control of herself. She thought that when she could get enough breath to do it, she would ask him to go down town and bring her some ice-cream or something; but when she did open her lips they emitted, entirely without permission, a queer sound that was somewhere between a yelp and a croak.