George Rutherford examined her narrowly, and a look of care came into his own face.
“Tell me all about it, Joan,” he said gravely.
“Another day, please, father. It is over now.”
“My dear, it will worry me more not to know. I can see that you have been unhappy. Perhaps if we both speak openly, each may be some help to the other.”
Joan turned her head away.
“I went to see old Mr. Brooke,” she said. “And he told me what he had said to you—about himself—and about—”
“Marian?” asked George cautiously. If Joan did not yet know this thing, he was in no haste to tell her. There were times still when George, if not flurried or excited, had much of his old presence of mind: and it was so now.
“Yes, father.”
“My poor little girl!” was his response.
“Mother doesn’t know yet,” Joan said, drawing a long breath. “But she must, of course.”