“I have a guardian,” she said.
“You’re of age.”
“No; I’m nineteen.”
“You—it happens, were of age at eighteen, Joan.” He watched her face. He had been burning to get to this point for weeks. “Even about your birth there was freedom.”
“So you know that.”
“Icy voice! To me it seems the grandest thing. When I reflect that I, alas! was born in loveless holy wedlock I grit my teeth.”
“Oh! I don’t care. But how do you know?”
“It’s fairly well known, Joan. It’s no very elaborate secret. I’ve got a little volume of your father’s poetry.”
She hesitated. “I didn’t know my father wrote poetry,” she said.
“It was all Will Sydenham ever did that was worth doing—except launch you into the world. He was a dramatic critic and something of a journalist, I believe. Stoner of the Post knew him quite well. But all this is ancient history to you.”