A wide streak of yellow
light fell through open French windows across the veranda and on to the
grass, all dew-covered. Some one was there ... a woman's voice, not
merry, and with a break in it.... When the cat's away, the mice, in the
shape of one of the servants...

Joan went on again. What a joke to peep in! She wouldn't frighten the
girl or walk in and ask questions. It was, as yet, too much Marty's
house for that--and, after all, what harm was she doing by sitting up
on such a lovely night? The only thing was it was Martin's very own
room filled with his intimate things and with his father's message
written largely on a card over the fireplace--"We count it death to
falter, not to die."

But she went on, unsuspecting, her hand unconsciously clasped in the
stern relentless hand of Fate, who never forgets to punish.... A shadow
crossed the yellow patch. There was the sound of a pipe being knocked
out on one of the firedogs. A man was there, then. Should she take one
look, or go back? She would go back. It was none of her business,
unfortunately. But she was drawn on and on, until she could see into
the long, low, masculine room.

A man was sitting on the arm of a sofa, a man with square shoulders and
a deep chest, a man with his strong young face turned to the light,
smiling--

"Marty," cried Joan. "Marty!" and went up and across the veranda and
into the room. "Why, Marty," and held out her hand, all glad and
tremulous.

And Martin got on his feet and stood in amazement, wide-eyed, and
suddenly white.

"You here!" cried Joan. "I've been waiting and wondering, but I didn't
call because I wanted you to come back for yourself and not for me.
It's been a long week, Marty, and in every hour of it I've grown. Can't
you see the change?"

And Martin looked at her, and his heart leaped, and the blood blazed in
his veins and he was about to go forward and catch her in his arms with
a great cry...

"Oh, hello, Lady-bird; who'd have expected to see you!"

Joan wheeled to the left.

Lying full stretched on the settee, her settee, was a girl with her
hands under her bobbed hair, a blue dress caught up under one knee, her
bare arms agleam, her elfin face all white and a smile round her too
red lips.

("White face and red lips and hair that came out of a bottle.")

Martin said something, inarticulately, and moved a chair forward. The
girl spoke again, cheerily, in the spirit of good-fellowship,
astonished a little,