Patricia was arraigning herself with Sylvia for reasons best known to herself. She had the air of a very discreet young woman.
Long did Joan lie awake that night on her narrow bed. She had raised the shade, and the stars were splendid in the blue-black sky.
She was happier, sadder, than she had ever been in her life before—more confused.
She wanted Doris and Nancy and the shelter and care; she wanted her own broad path and the thrill that her own sense of power gave her. She wanted to cling close to Sylvia; she was afraid of Patricia but felt the girl's influence in her deepest depths.
In short, Joan was waking to the meaning of life, and it had taken very little to awaken her, for her time had come.
Three days later Kenneth Raymond ate his luncheon at the Brier Bush and spoke no word to Joan. The following day he nodded to her, and the day after that he said, in a low voice as she passed:
"I want to have you read my palm again."
"Once is enough," Joan replied.
"I have forgotten what you said," Raymond broke in; "besides, I have another reason. You've set me on a line of thought—you've got to clear the track."
"Oh, very well." And Joan sat down and took the broad hand in hers.