Tembarom had looked deeply interested from the first, but at her last words a new alertness added itself.
“Did you say Lady Joan?” he asked. “Who was Lady Joan?”
“She was the girl he was so much in love with. Her name was Lady Joan Fayre.”
“Was she the daughter of the Countess of Mallowe?”
“Yes. Have you heard of her?”
He recalled Ann's reflective consideration of him before she had said, “She'll come after you.” He replied now: “Some one spoke of her to me this morning. They say she's a beauty and as proud as Lucifer.”
“She was, and she is yet, I believe. Poor Lady Joan—as well as poor Jem!”
“She didn't believe it, did she?” he put in hastily. “She didn't throw him down?”
“No one knew what happened between them afterward. She was in the card-room, looking on, when the awful thing took place.”
She stopped, as though to go on was almost unbearable. She had been so overwhelmed by the past shame of it that even after the passing of years the anguish was a living thing. Her small hands clung hard together as they rested on the edge of the table. Tembarom waited in thrilled suspense. She spoke in a whisper again: