She ran to the window and peeped out eagerly, hoping he might be watching her window. But only the old gardener was in sight, pottering about among the roses. She blew a kiss from her finger-tips--whether to the gardener, the roses, or the sparkling water beyond she did not know--and began hurriedly to dress. Singing under her breath, she tripped down the stairs. The big, sunny house was very still. Joan, going from room to room, gazed about her appreciatively. Hitherto the house, the garden, the wide, pleasant countryside had all served merely as a background, of which she was vaguely aware as actors are of a suitable setting for the play they produce. Now she felt that she really had leisure to enjoy her surroundings, which were usually very important to Joan. She paused to examine a hunting-print, lingered over a fine etching, patted affectionately the soft, gay chintzes of the morning-room. What a relief after such an artificial house as her step-mother's! Nothing here in the least pretentious, no striving after periods, or artistry, or even originality, but everything good, well-chosen, used: luxury in abeyance to comfort; everywhere evidence of travel and culture, and the long habit of these things. Joan drew a breath of satisfaction. Just such a home she hoped to make for Eduard, though on a smaller scale, perhaps, and with the addition of a little beauty; since it takes more than wealth to provide that. She thought to find him in the billiard-room, or perhaps in a certain little vine-hung balcony where they sometimes met. But both were empty. "Where's everybody this fine morning, Molly!" she asked a housemaid she met in the hall. "Gone over to play golf, like as usual, Miss--'cep'n Mr. Eduard," added Molly, (the pantry having eyes of its own). "He took the first train to town--no'm, I guess it was the second train. Anyway it was real early for Mr. Eduard to be up." "Oh," said Joan, blankly. Then it occurred to her why he might have felt the sudden need of running into town. Bracelets are all very well in their way, but they are, after all, noncommittal. She glanced down at her ringless hands, and laughed. The maid smiled, too, as if in sympathy. "That's an awful pretty bracelet you got on, miss," she was emboldened to say. "I like it myself, Molly," she confessed, holding it off at arm's length the better to admire it. She wondered how long it took to get into Philadelphia and back, if one were in a hurry.... Presently some of the golfers came in, ravenous for luncheon. In a sudden accession of shyness, Joan hid her bracelet in her pocket. She surprised them by offering to go back with them later to the golf-links. "Perhaps I'll catch a golf-germ," she explained. "What, no engagement for this afternoon? Where's our Eduard?" murmured Mrs. Rossiter, who was one of the party. But Joan had learned long since to meet impertinence with a noncommittal smile.