Tiptoeing across the living room, Joyce took her stand by the table and called timidly, expectantly and awesomely:
"Come."
The latch lifted and some one pressed against the door, and then, in walked Ruth Dale.
She wore the heavy crimson cloak of Constance's, the fur-trimmed hood of which encircled her face.
Coming from the outer sunlight into the lamp-lighted room, Ruth Dale stood for a moment, dazzled and confused. Then her grave, kindly eyes were riveted upon the splendid, straight young form confronting her.
Never in her life had Ruth Dale been so utterly confounded and taken aback. For a full moment the two faced each other in solemn silence. It was Joyce who spoke.
"I heard you say you were coming. I was in when you and Miss Drew called before, but I wasn't ready for company then. Won't you sit down?"
Mrs. Dale sank into the nearest chair from sheer helplessness.
"Please take off your cloak. The room is very warm."
It was stifling, and Ruth Dale unfastened and let fall the heavy fur-lined wrap.