"Joan!" Raymond flung out the question that was tormenting him. "Joan, why didn't we—care the other way?"
"I think," Joan looked ancient, but pathetically young, "I think men and women don't, when they understand too well. And the line in our hands explains that, perhaps," she smiled wanly. "You see, Miss Jones and Mr. Black are—paying!"
"Joan, go now, dear. Others might not understand." Raymond at that moment grimly shut the door on his one playtime!
"And you—would hate to have them misunderstand about me—for Nancy's sake?"
"No, Joan, for your own. You're too big and fine—to have any more hurting things knock you. May I kiss—you good-night?"
For a moment something in Joan shrank, then she raised her face.
"Yes. Good-night—brother Ken."
For another moment they stood silent. Then:
"What was it that made you so hard at dinner, Joan, and makes you so sweet now?"
"Ken, I thought that you—had not tried to find out about me—after that night!"