Joan found her dignity. "My own heart is sound," she protested.
"Then don't accuse it, child, by protests."
"I'm so glad that he's gone—so glad!" She crossed to the window again, looked out on the sunlit street. "How drab the world is," she said pettishly. "There'll be snow before night, I fancy; it grows chilly."
"The world's drab," assented Lady Ingilby. "What else does one expect at my years? And our six-foot Metcalf will forget you for the first pretty face he meets in York."
"Is he so base? Tell me, is he so base?"
"No; he forgets—simply, he forgets. Men do."
Without, in Ripley street, there was great stir of men and horses getting ready for the York road. Lady Ingilby, hearing the tumult of it, crossed to the window, and her heart was lighter by twenty years as she watched the cavalcade ride out.
"The White Horses, and six-score giants riding them! They'll make history, girl. The pity is that not all of those six-score will sit a saddle again. They have the look of men who do not care how and when they die, so long as King Charles has need of them."
"Kit will return," said Joan, in a chastened voice.
"That is good hearing. How do you know it, baby-girl?"