d take her courage in both hands and tell him
that she wanted to play the game. And then, having been honest, she
would hitch on to life again with a light heart, and neither Alice nor
Gilbert could stand up and flick her conscience. Martin would be happy.

To-morrow and to-morrow, and no Martin.

At the end of a week a letter was received by her mother from
Grandmother Ludlow, in which, with a tinge of sarcasm, she asked that
she might be honored by a visit of a few days, always supposing that
trains still ran between New York and Peapack and gasolene could still
be procured for privately owned cars. And there was a postscript in
these words. "Perhaps you have the necessary eloquence to induce the
athletic Mrs. Martin Gray to join you."

The letter was handed to Joan across the luncheon table at the Plaza.
She read the characteristic effusion with keen amusement. She could
hear the old lady's incisive voice in every word and the tap of her
stick across the hall as she laid the letter in the box. How good to
see the country again and go through the woods to the old high place
where she had turned and found Martin. How good to go back to that old
prison house as an independent person, with the right to respect and
even consideration. It would serve Martin right to find her away when
he came back. She would leave a little note on his dressing table.

"No wonder the old lady asks if the trains have broken down," said Mrs.
Harley. "Of course, we ought to have gone out to see her, Geordie."

"Of course," said George, "of course"--but he darted a glance at Joan
which very plainly conveyed the hope that she would find some reason
why the visit should not be made. Would he ever forget standing in that
stiff drawing-room before that contemptuous old dame, feeling exactly
like a very small worm?

The strain of waiting for Martin day after day had told on Joan. She
longed for a change of atmosphere, a change of scene. And what a joke
it would be to be able to face her grandfather and grandmother without
shaking in her shoes! "Of course," said Joan. "Let's drive out to-day
in time for dinner, and send a telegram at once. Nothing like striking
while the iron's hot. Papa Geordie, tell the waiter to bring a blank,
and we'll concoct a message between us. Is that all right for you,
Mother?"

Mrs. Harley looked rather like a woman being asked to run a quarter of
a mile to catch a train, but she gave a little laugh and said, "Yes,