It was the fear that had been haunting her. She did not know how white she had turned. “But you haven’t married her—or have you?” asked Joan.!

“He might win through,” mused Greyson. “He’s the man to do it, if anybody could. But the odds will be against him.” “I’ve always been considered good at asking awkward questions,” she assured him.

They talked for a time about domestic matters. Joan had established herself in furnished rooms in a quiet street of pleasant Georgian houses just behind the Abbey; a member of Parliament and his wife occupied the lower floors, the landlord, a retired butler, and his wife, an excellent cook, confining themselves to the basement and the attics. The remaining floor was tenanted by a shy young man—a poet, so the landlady thought, but was not sure. Anyhow he had long hair, lived with a pipe in his mouth, and burned his lamp long into the night. Joan had omitted to ask his name. She made a note to do so. “Only two,” answered the Human Document, “both girls.” He struck a match and held it for her. Joan sat with her elbows on the table and smoked in silence. She was thinking.