"Joan, don't go. I don't want you to."
"I must," she said again. "Surely you can understand? I have to get away from myself."
"But won't I do?"
"It's Gilbert's turn," she said. "Let go, Harry dear." It was good to know that she hadn't hurt this boy.
"I don't like it. Please stay," but he let her go, and watched her down the steps and into the car, with unaccountable misgiving. He had seen Gilbert's face.
And he saw it again under the strong light of the entrance—triumphant.
For minutes after the car had gone, with a wave from Joan, he stood still, with an icy hand on his heart.
"I don't like it," he repeated. "I wish to God I'd had the right to stop her."
She thought that he didn't love her, and he had done his best to obey. But he did love her, more than Martin, it seemed, more than Gilbert, he thought, and by this time she was well on her way to—what?