“He seems rather a bugbear of your imagination at present. Did he not assure you of non-troublesome intentions?”
“Oh, yes. But people change their minds betimes.”
“They do,” George said. “Will you change yours now, Joan, and ask me the little question which you had in your thoughts a minute ago?”
Joan’s eyes fell.
“I don’t think I can,” she said.
“Not if I wish it?”
Joan fidgeted with one of her gloves. Once she looked up, and met his kind, wistful gaze. Words were hovering on her lips, yet they did not come forth. She said at length, desperately—
“Father, I can’t.”
“Well, I won’t tease you. Some other time I hope you will be able. No need to say how glad I am to give my Joan help, whenever it is possible.”
Yes, Joan knew that well; and as the momenta sped she began slowly to wish that she had not let the opportunity slip. She could scarcely have told what she had wanted to ask, only she had a sense of need, a desire for something of spiritual help. And, after all, no time for appealing to George Rutherford could well be better than this lost time. But it was now too late. The train was rushing into Woodleigh, and the station lay close ahead. Rapid slackening of speed had already begun.