Early in the new year David Martin returned from the West bearing about him the impression of battle crowned by victory. He was jovial and boyishly delighted with Doris's improvement.
"I haven't long to stay," he confided to her, "but I had to see how things were going here before I settled down in New York. Nancy looks fine! She's happy, too." This to Nancy, who was fondling the pups by the fire.
"Well, then, how about Joan?"
Doris, her hands folded in her lap, did not reply.
At this Martin took to striding up and down the long, sunny room. The thought of Nancy rested him; Joan always irritated him.
"When is she coming back?" he asked suddenly.
"She's got——" Nancy hesitated at the word; "she's got a job. She won't come home until she's lost that."
Martin turned on Doris a perplexed and awakened face.
"What's this?" His voice had the ring of the primitive male.
"Well, you know Joan is with Sylvia Reed, David. You remember that girl who painted so beautifully at Dondale? Sylvia has a studio, now, and is regularly launched. She's doing extremely good work. Nan, show Doctor Martin that magazine cover that Sylvia did."