After Lowrie's death, Anice Barholm and Joan were oftener together than ever. What had at first been friendship had gradually become affection.
“I think,” Anice said to Grace, “that Joan must go away from here and find a new life.”
“That is the only way,” he answered. “In this old one there has been nothing but misery for her, and bitterness and pain.”
Fergus Derrick was sitting at a table turning over a book of engravings. He looked up sharply.
“Where can you find a new life for her?” he asked. “And how can you help her to it? One dare not offer her even a semblance of assistance.”
They had not spoken to him, but he had heard, as he always heard, everything connected with Joan Lowrie. He was always restless and eager where she was concerned. All intercourse between them seemed to be at an end. Without appearing to make an effort to do so, she kept out of his path. Try as he might, he could not reach her. At last it had come to this: he was no longer dallying upon the brink of a great and dangerous passion,—it had overwhelmed him.
“One cannot even approach her,” he said again.
Anice regarded him with a shade of pity in her face.
“The time is coming when it will not be so,” she said.
The night before Joan Lowrie had spent an hour with her. She had come in on her way from her work, before going to Thwaite's, and had knelt down upon the hearth-rug to warm herself. There had been no light in the room but that of the fire, and its glow, falling upon her face, had revealed to Anice something like haggardness.