Joan asked, after a time: “Are you sure Jack Routt is really your friend, Wint?”
“Of course,” he said, looking at her. “Why not? What do you mean?”
“I don’t like him.”
He laughed. “A girl never likes a man’s friends. Jack’s all right. He’s a prince.”
“Is he?”
“Sure he is.”
Joan said no more about Routt. She spoke of other things, trivial things; and for an hour she and Wint managed to talk easily enough without touching on forbidden ground. It was not till he got up to go that they spoke seriously again. She had helped him on with his coat. At the door, he faced her; and he asked:
“Joan, d’you really think I ought to—patch things up at home?”
She answered him straightforwardly: “Yes, Wint.”
He looked past her, eyes thoughtful; and at last he held out his hand. “Well, good night,” he said. “Maybe I will.”