"She has never been before or since," he answered.
Cicely laughed.
"I was foolish," she said. "I will ask no more questions."
They had reached the railings, and he pointed downwards to the gardens
below.
"There is an empty seat," he said. "Shall we go there and sit down?"
She nodded.
"Anywhere. Joan is out. I need not go home for an hour."
"Still," he asked, with a grim smile, "searching?"
Cicely did not smile. It was the tragedy of her life to see her sister,
once devoted purely to domestic interests, quick-tongued, cleanly,
severe, calvinistic, spend fruitless hours day by day seeking a futile
vengeance. Joan she had always thought of as a typical farmer's
housewife--severe with her tongue perhaps, shrewd, and a trifle of a
scold. But this woman who walked the streets of London in her solemn
black clothes, pale-faced, untiring, ever with that same glitter in her
eyes, was a revelation. She turned to Douglas suddenly.
"Douglas," she said, "did Joan care for you very much?"
"I should not have said so," he answered. "She was willing to marry me
when your father ordered it. You know what our engagement was like. We
were called into the parlour the Sunday morning before I--I--you
remember my trial Sunday at Feldwick?
"Well, he just turned to Joan and said, 'Joan, it is my will that you
marry Douglas.
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