She was so tremulous and unlike herself that Leo ventured on no further opposition. Once more in the open carriage, with only the cloudless sky overhead, a sigh of relief escaped Joan. “Dear, dear father!” Leonard heard her murmur; and the black eyes were soft with unshed tears.
“I am afraid our little outing has not done you as much good as I had hoped it would,” said Leo kindly.
“It doesn’t matter! I shall be all right now; and I don’t mean to leave father again. Leo the man is going the longer way round. Tell him not, please.”
“No; I want time for a few words with you.”
“About father—yes, you were going to tell me—I have not forgotten that,” she said.
“And about Marian, Joan. Would you mind telling me what she said or did that upset you so much?”
“She was rude,” Joan answered, a crimson flush mounting in her pale cheeks. “I could not allow that, of course; and when I spoke to her she cried, and seemed quite absurd. It was very foolish of me to care; but I am always so inclined to fancy that things mean more than they really do. I would rather not talk about it now, if you don’t mind. I would rather try to forget.”
“I think I ought to know all,” said Leonard. “There is the question whether she should be allowed still to wait on your mother?”
“You must settle that; I don’t know anything about it,” said Joan dejectedly. “Only I can’t see her again. If I go to see mother, Marian will have to be out of the way. I should not like to meet her a second time. I don’t think she meant any harm, only she was so queer and excited; and when she was rude it made me angry.”
“Marian told me she had behaved with what Miss Brooke counted too much freedom,” said Leo.