Gaston wondered what he was going to do with the girl. The thought did not disturb him; but, of course, he must make arrangements.
Long ago he had so shut out his own world that he could not, now, call upon it for Joyce's protection. St. Angé was impossible as a working basis—his thoughts flew to Filmer. Yes; as soon as Joyce could explain, he would go for Filmer and together they would solve this riddle for the poor, battered soul, shrinking before him.
He must hurry her a little. St. Angé and nine o'clock must be considered.
The wine had brought life and colour into the white face. The glorious hair, now rapidly drying in the warm room, was curling in childish fashion above the wide eyes.
She was certainly too young and pretty to run the risk that the night might bring.
A complication arose. Divine pity made way for a sense of the girl's beauty and helplessness. The bruise upon the soft cheek cried out for tenderness and protection. Gaston strove to detach himself from the personal element. He strove to feel old and fatherly but he was still young; Fate was tempting him in the subtlest manner. The best and the worst of the man came to the fore.
The wind howled outside; the warmth and comfort held them close—together, and alone.
What did anything matter? They had both done their parts. They had tried to be what the world called good—and here they were tossed back upon each other, and not a hope beyond.
Then Gaston found himself speaking quite outside of the consciousness that was almost stifling him with its allurement.
"Joyce, I must take you home as soon as you can walk. I can straighten this out. It shall not happen again. You forget I have a certain hold over Jude."