One of the intuitions to which Joan was liable came to her. Glancing up at the grandstand, she saw the seat just behind hers was empty.
"Oh, Archie! It's my little old woman!" she cried pitifully. "Go and see, will you?—a shabby old thing with a bonnet tied under her chin."
He hesitated. "I don't like to leave you here alone. Suppose somebody should speak to you?"
"Then I shall most certainly speak back!" she said, and he reluctantly obeyed her wish. Indeed, with Archie, her wishes were apt to assume the form of commands.
The gaiety of the scene was gone for Joan. She had got her glimpse of the grim reality that lies beneath. She was to have another glimpse of it.
As she stood there, buffeted by the passing throng, she caught sight across the wide passageway of her step-mother, in conversation with somebody who for a moment she did not see. Joan started across to join her. Effie May's back was toward her, and not until Joan was within hearing distance did she notice the man to whom her step-mother was speaking. Then she stopped where she was, startled.
He was a dissipated-looking creature, hardly better in appearance than a race-horse tout, flashily dressed, wearing a large diamond in his tie—altogether one of the least desirable types of those who follow the races. But he was not only talking with evident familiarity to Mrs. Darcy, he had taken hold of her arm. It came to Joan in a flash that the man was doubtless some relative, possibly her brother. What did they know of Effie May's family?
Joan stood still and frankly listened.
"No, no, you don't put that over on me, old girl," this person was saying in a low but carrying voice. "You're not going to slip away on me again that easy!"
Her step-mother's rejoinder did not reach Joan's ears, but she saw her glance round uneasily. Joan did not blame her for not wishing to be seen with her present companion. She quietly slipped behind the shelter of a pillar.