ey looked up at the portrait. An involuntary smiled played
round her mouth. "Yes, of course. I remember him. What a dear boy! No
wonder you fell in love with him, darling. You must be very happy."

Joan followed her mother out of the room. She was glad of the chance to
control her expression. She went upstairs with a curious lack of the
spirit of proprietorship. It hurt her to feel as if she were showing a
house taken furnished for the season in which she had no rights, no
pride and no personal interest. Martin had treated her like a kid last
night and gone away in the morning without a word. Alice and Gilbert
had taunted her with not being a wife. She wasn't, and this was
Martin's house, not hers and Martin's ... it hurt.

"Ah," said Mrs. Harley softly as she went into Joan's bedroom. "Ah.
Very nice. You both have room to move here." But the mass of little
filet lace pillows puzzled her, and she darted a quick look at the tall
young thing with the inscrutable face who had ceased to be her little
girl and had become her daughter.

"The sun pours in," said Joan, turning away.

Mrs. Harley noticed a door and brightened up.

"Martin's dressing room?" she asked. "No. My maid's room!" Joan said.

Mrs. Harley shook her head ever so little. She was not in sympathy with
what she called new-fashioned ideas. It was on the tip of her tongue to
say so and to forget, just this once, the inevitable change in their
relationship and speak like mammy once more. But she was a timid,
sensitive little woman, and the indefinable barrier that had suddenly
sprung up held her back. Joan made no attempt to meet her halfway. The
moment passed.

They went along the passage. "There are Martin's rooms," said Joan.

Mrs. Harley went halfway in. "Like a bachelor's rooms, aren't they?"
she said, without guile. And while she glanced at the pictures and the
crowded bootrack and the old tallboys, Joan's sudden color went away
again.... He was a bachelor. He had left her on the other side of the
bridge. He had hurt her last night. How awfully she must have hurt him!

"When will Martin be back?"

"I don't know," said Joan. "Probably to-morrow. I'm not sure." She
stumbled a little, realized that she was giving herself away,--because
if a bride is not to know her husband's movements, who is?--and made a
desperate effort to recover her position. "It all depends on how long
he's kept. But he needed exercise, and golf's such a good game, isn't
it? I