“Women don't wear lockets in these days.” He could barely hear her voice because it was so low. “But I've never taken it off. I want him near my heart. It's Jem!”
He held it on the palm of his hand and stood under the light, studying it as if he wanted to be sure he wouldn't forget it.
“It's—sorter like that picture of Miles Hugo, ain't it?” he suggested.
“Yes. People always said so. That was why you found me in the picture-gallery the first time we met.”
“I knew that was the reason—and I knew I'd made a break when I butted in,” he answered. Then, still looking at the photograph, “You'd know this face again most anywhere you saw it, I guess.”
“There are no faces like it anywhere,” said Joan.
“I guess that's so,” he replied. “And it's one that wouldn't change much either. Thank you, Lady Joan.”
He handed back the picture, and she put out her hand again.
“I think I'll go to my room now,” she said. “You've done a strange thing to me. You've taken nearly all the hatred and bitterness out of my heart. I shall want to come back here whether my mother comes or not—I shall want to.”
“The sooner the quicker,” he said. “And so long as I'm here I'll be ready and waiting.”