“It will do him good,” answered Mrs. Phillips; “getting away from them all for an hour or two. I don’t see much of him myself.” She gave Joan a hug and a kiss, and was gone. Joan joined Madge in the kitchen, where she was toasting buns.!

The atmosphere was becoming tragic. Joan felt the need of escaping from it. She sprang up. “I’m just running round to the doctor’s,” she whispered. “His medicine hasn’t come. I shan’t be long.”

Joan had no intention of being lured into the Birmingham parlour. She thought she could see in it a scheme for her gradual entanglement. Besides, she was highly displeased. She had intended asking her father to come to Brighton with her. As a matter of fact, she had forgotten all about Christmas; and the idea only came into her head while explaining to Arthur how his impulsiveness had interfered with it. Arthur, crestfallen, suggested telegrams. It would be quite easy to alter everything; and of course her father would rather be with her, wherever it was. But it seemed it was too late. She ought to have been consulted. A sudden sense of proprietorship in her father came to her assistance and added pathos to her indignation. Of course, now, she would have to spend Christmas alone. She was far too busy to think of Birmingham. She could have managed Brighton. Argument founded on the length of journey to Birmingham as compared with the journey to Brighton she refused to be drawn into. Her feelings had been too deeply wounded to permit of descent into detail. “Yes,” she answered firmly, as if she were giving a command. But he read pity also in her eyes. “What do you mean,” asked Joan. “Didn’t she wish it?”