CHAPTER XII
Gaston sank back in his chair, and Joyce sat down opposite. The table was between them, and the light of the fire and lamp flooded over the girl.
She was wonderful in that gown, and with her splendid, pale hair framing her face with its fair glory.
The shock of surprise was passing, but Gaston still looked at the girl as if he had never seen her before.
"What is it, Joyce?" he asked presently; "what has changed you so?" Then he smiled, for the question seemed crude and ill-advised.
"The dress—isn't that what you wanted?"
"I do not mean the dress—there is something else."
"So there is—but it came with the dress. Perhaps you—did not order that—well, then, it must be your part of the surprise. Don't you remember that story you read to me once—about the mantle of Elijah? You know it made the humble wearer—great. Well, these pretty things,"—she touched them lightly—"they make me—a woman. The sort of woman who must—ask questions—and get answers—true answers."
"Why, don't you trust—me?"
The pained question was wrung from Gaston's lips. The steady look from the big eyes went strangely to his heart.