back into the position of enchanted leopardess, to see her "lie at his
feet and eat out of his hand," as Morena had once described the plight
of Zona, he would see at a glance that she was no longer so easily
mastered. In fact, sitting there, she looked as proud and perilous as
a young Medea, black-haired with long throat and cold, malevolent
lips. It was only in the eyes--those gray, unhappy, haunted eyes--that
Joan gave away her eternal simplicity of heart. They were unalterably
tender and lonely and hurt. It was the look in them that had prompted
Shorty's description, "She's plumb movin' to me--looks about halfway
between 'You go to hell' and 'You take me in your arms to rest.'"

Prosper was announced, and Joan, keeping her stillness, merely turned
her head toward him as he came into the room.

She saw his rapid observation of the room, of her, even before she
noticed the very apparent change in him. For he, too, was haggard and
utterly serious as she did not remember him. He stood before her fire
and asked her jerkily if she would let him smoke. She said "Yes," and
those were the only words spoken for five unbearable minutes the
seconds of which her heart beat out like a shaky hammer in some worn
machine.

Prosper smoked and stood there looking, now at her, now at the fire.
At last, with difficulty, he smiled. "You are not going to make it
easy for me, are you, Joan?"

For her part she was not looking at him. She kept her eyes on the fire
and this averted look distressed and irritated his nerves.

"I am not trying to make it hard," she said; "I want you to say what
you came to say and go."

"Did _you_ ever love me, Joan?"

He had said it to force a look from her, but it had the effect only of
making her more still, if possible.

"I don't know," she said slowly, answering with her old directness. "I
thought you needed me. I was alone. I was scared of the emptiness when
I went out and looked down the valley. I thought Pierre had gone out
of the world and there was no living thing that wanted me. I came back
and you met me and you put your arms round me and you said"--she
closed her eyes and repeated his speech as though she had just heard
it--"'Don't leave me, Joan.'"

Her voice was more than ever before moving and expressive. Prosper
felt that half-forgotten thrill. The muscles of his throat contracted.
"Joan, I did want you. I spoke the truth," he pleaded.

She went on with no impatience but very coldly