Joan at twenty-one was not greatly altered from Joan at four. There were the same rich eyes of black velvet, under restless brows ever in motion, and the same dark, clear skin, flushed in checks and lips with a healthy red. Perhaps the features were not so regular as might have been expected in her childhood; but the upright, well-made figure showed off her good looks to the best advantage. People sometimes said it mattered little what her features were, for there was no getting beyond those eyes. Her manner was swift, direct, eager, full of readiness and impulse; and when she smiled her whole face lighted up into real beauty. Joan was a warm-blooded, warm-handed, warm-hearted creature—no lack of animation in that quarter.
“Ready to go out, Nessie? Why, you are not dressed.”
“I didn’t know when you meant to come back,” responded Nessie, not stirring.
“Three o’clock, I told you; and it is past three. You had better make haste—though of course you won’t,” added Joan, laughing, as Nessie slowly found her feet. “It’s a lovely afternoon. Father, don’t you want a little turn in the garden? Nessie always takes half an hour to put on her hat.”
“To be sure I do,” George answered promptly; and the book was forsaken at once. Dulcibel sat looking after the two, as they passed out through the low French window.
“Come to the copse,” Joan suggested, clinging to George Rutherford’s arm. “It is delicious there. Oh, I wish I had not offered to take out Nessie to-day!”
“My dear, why?” asked George.
“I’d rather be with you, father; and I thought you had an engagement.”
“So I had, but it has fallen through. We can’t always have our own way in everything, Joan.”
“But I like to have mine—always,” responded Joan. “And I do want to have a walk or a read with you to-day. Only I have promised to take out Nessie—so I must.”