“She’s the most beautiful body in all the world,” he said. “Though merely seeing her you mightn’t know it.” It was half-past five when she sat down with her tea in front of her. It was only ten minutes’ walk to Charing Cross—say a quarter of an hour. She might pick up a cab. She grew calmer as she ate and drank. Her reason seemed to be returning to her. There was no such violent hurry. Hadn’t she better think things over, in the clear daylight? The woman had been ill now for nearly six weeks: a few hours—a day or two—could make no difference. It might alarm the poor creature, her unexpected appearance at such an unusual hour—cause a relapse. Suppose she had been mistaken? Hadn’t she better make a few inquiries first—feel her way? One did harm more often than good, acting on impulse. After all, had she the right to interfere? Oughtn’t the thing to be thought over as a whole? Mightn’t there be arguments, worth considering, against her interference? Her brain was too much in a whirl. Hadn’t she better wait till she could collect and arrange her thoughts?!

He took a note-book from under his pillow and commenced to scribble. “I want you to give me up that box,” she said, “and to come away with me where I can be with you and take care of you until you are well.”

He had been staring through her rather than at her, so it had seemed to Joan. Suddenly their eyes met, and he broke into a smile. Joan stopped. “Why, it’s the house you are always talking about,” she said. “Are you thinking of taking it?” He was reading every expression on her face.