Joan took him into her room at the end of the ward, from where, through the open door, she could still keep watch. They spoke in low tones. CHAPTER III!

“Remember me to him,” he said. “And tell him I thank him for all those years of love and gentleness. I don’t think he will be offended.” “But perhaps I can arrange a meeting for you with a friend,” she added, “who will be better able to help you, if he is in Paris. I will let you know.”

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? “Quite cleverly. So as to avoid all danger of after discovery: that might have hurt us,” she answered. He wrote her two days later from Ayr, giving her the name of his regiment, and again some six months later from Flanders. But there would have been no sense in her replying to that last.