“And you don’t forget our compact, do you?” he continued, “that I am to be your backer. I want to be in it too.” “I wish you would come oftener,” he said. “Mary has taken such a liking to you. If you care to meet people, we can always whip up somebody of interest.”!

She thought that even then God might reconsider it—see her point of view. Perhaps He would send her a sign. They had paused where a group of trees threw a blot of shadow across the moonlit road.

Joan was worried. “I told Dad I should only ask him for enough to make up two hundred a year,” she explained. “He’ll laugh at me for not knowing my own mind.” One did no good by suppressing one’s nature. In the end it proved too strong. Marriage with Arthur would be only repeating the mistake. To be worshipped, to be served. It would be very pleasant, when one was in the mood. But it would not satisfy her. There was something strong and fierce and primitive in her nature—something that had come down to her through the generations from some harness-girded ancestress—something impelling her instinctively to choose the fighter; to share with him the joy of battle, healing his wounds, giving him of her courage, exulting with him in the victory. She took from among the litter a faded photograph and handed it to Joan. “Odd,” she said. “I’ve just turned it out.”