“Oh, I don’t know!” repeated Joan, falling into a languid tone. “Only, as I say, one must speak to some one. But I am going back to father now, unless you will tell me first what Mr. Forest really thinks. I do want to know.”
“It is hardly possible that he should say anything decided at present,” said Leo.
“Of course. Everybody knows that,” responded Joan, listlessly, yet with a touch of petulance. “But I suppose he says a good deal more to you than he does to me. He thinks I can’t stand hearing the truth. And he doesn’t guess how much worse it is not hearing, only being left to think and imagine, and—Leo, won’t you tell me?”
“Yes,” Leo said in his gentlest voice. “If you will put your bonnet on and come for a little walk, Joan, I will tell you all Mr. Forest has said to me?”
“And not without?”
“No.”
“It is cruel,” Joan said, rising. “I am so tired, and the sunshine makes me miserable. But I suppose you will keep to what you say.”
“For your sake, Joan,” he said, apologetically. “You must have air, and you have not been out for three days.”
“I don’t want to go out.”
Yet he did not withdraw his condition, and she moved away, returning presently in hat and jacket.