"That is the end of lying," whispered Joan.

She threw down her cloak to keep the corner seat in the carriage and
stepped out on to the platform to see if she could catch sight of a
paper boy.

She had not seen Gilbert since the morning. He had had an appointment in
the city, he had left it to her to get the flat ready for his mother.
And she had done everything, there was nothing that she could reproach
herself with. She had engaged an extra room for Gilbert on the next
floor, she had bought fresh flowers, she had made the place look as
pretty as possible. It had not taken her long to do her own packing,
there was nothing of hers left anywhere about. And all morning she had
kept the window overlooking the Park tight shut. The scent of flowers
should bring no disturbing memories to weaken her resolve. Then when
everything had been quite settled she had sat down to write just a short
note to Gilbert.

"I have tried to make you understand a little of all I felt
this morning, but it was not any use. You cannot understand.
It is just that we have always looked at things differently. I
cannot live with you any more, Gilbert; what is the use of
trying to explain. It is better just to say--as we agreed that
either of us should be free to say--it is all finished, and
good-bye."

She had propped the letter up for him to find, where she knew he would
look first of all, by his pipe and matches on the mantelpiece. Now she
had taken her ticket to Wrotham and wired Aunt Janet to say she was
coming. But as she stood waiting for the train to start it occurred to
her that she was really watching to see Gilbert's slim, well-built
figure push its way through the crowd towards her. The thought made her
uneasy, she hoped he would have been late getting home; she doubted her
strength of will to stand against him should he appear in person to
persuade her.

He did not come, however, and presently with a great deal of noise and
excitement, whistles blowing and doors slamming, the train was off and
she could sit back in her corner seat with a strange sense of
pleasurable excitement at having so far achieved her purpose.

Uncle John was at the station to meet her. A straight-held old
figure--in his young days he had been in the army and very
good-looking--now the bristling moustache was white and the hair grew in
little tufts either side of an otherwise bald head. Ever since Joan
could first remember h