CHAPTER II
Later, as she lay propped up in her snug little berth (far the pleasantest part of the journey to Joan), with her shade up for fear of missing anything of the mysterious night that passed outside—strange, silent cities, isolated farms asleep in the starlight, the glow of smelting fires as they flashed by, like a startling glimpse into the infernal regions—it suddenly occurred to Joan that her father had been unprecedentedly lavish in his provision for her journey home.
"Money for good-by presents to all the girls; money for ticket, and sleeper, and tips, and ten dollars besides—goodness! Dad must have struck something!" she mused, deciding that it was really business that kept him from coming to see her graduate, and not, to put it delicately, the lack of business.
In the Darcy family things were always put delicately. The mention of cost was deprecated. One never said crudely that a thing could not be afforded. One "preferred not to bother about it just then," or one "liked last year's hat so much better than any in the shops," or one "enjoyed the freedom of being without servants for a while—it was a relief."
Occasionally Joan's mother, before she overcame the blunter speech of the North, had offended the family taste with plain statements about prices and possibilities. Joan, observant from her cradle, drew her own conclusions from the expression of wincing deprecation these faux pas produced upon her father's face, or upon that of the cousin or aunt or what-not in the way of Darcy relation that was usually visiting them.
"Mamma," she had asked once in the murmured intimacy that preceded sleepy time, "isn't money a very nice fing?"
"A very nice thing indeed, babykins," answered the lady with a faint sigh.
"Then why mustn't us never speak about it?"
It was not the only one of her daughter's questions that the harassed woman had been obliged to parry with what skill lay at her command. Honesty always came more easily to Mary Darcy than subterfuge.