"I don't know." Again the fair head bent above the coarse sewing in the trembling hands.
She had seen the light in the chinks of Gaston's shutter. She had felt his nearness, but rigid aloofness. The memory of these things had tortured her and left their trace in worn-out nerves and hurt pride. She felt that she hated Gaston and in revolt her thought now clung to Jude. She forgot her father.
"Joyce!"
"Oh, yes, father." How the insistent invasion of paternal intimacy jarred.
"I've been thinking lately how you and me might do better than stick here in St. Angé."
A sudden illumination flashed into the pale face. Was there a possibility of escape that did not include Jude?
"Where could we go, father?" Joyce was all attention.
"Oh! there are several places. I wasn't always here by a long shot. I've always meant to tell you some day, Joyce. It has sometimes struck me as singular that you never asked."
"I never cared. I was here—and the rest didn't matter—or it never did, until now."
"Well I was a handsome young buck once, my girl." Jared glanced at the mirror hanging over Joyce's head, and smirked. "I ain't a bad looking feller now. A little trimming of the beard, fashionable clothes, refined surroundings and you'd have a father that any girl might be proud of!"