“You do as I tell you!” ordered Napier. Fear made him brusque. He was worried about Joey. “Come! Get your hat and go home!” he said.
“But the letters—”
“Never mind the letters,” he said. “Plenty of time on Monday morning. Look here! You will rest, won’t you?”
He was dismayed by the change that came over her. All the color suddenly left her face, and she looked terribly white and strained.
“I didn’t mean to be—abrupt,” he said hastily. “It’s only—”
“I know!” said Joey, and smiled at him.
It was a smile that he did not soon forget, steadfast and radiant.
She had just remembered that she was going home empty-handed; and she was conscious now of a sharp headache and a great weariness, as if these things had also been waiting to be remembered. As she mounted her bicycle, her knees felt weak. The sun beat down upon her, stinging her shoulders beneath her thin blouse. Her eyes hurt from the glare of the white road. Her heart ached, as well as her head. She was Captain Vincey’s niece again, burdened by a hundred disgraceful anxieties.
“He’ll find out,” she thought. “Some one will tell him about—Uncle James.”
She did not delude herself with the notion that it would make no difference. Napier was not the sort to take Captain Vincey for granted. He was not tolerant. He wanted everything just right.