"Well, then, you're all right, Nan!"
The tone, more than the words, stung Nancy. It hurt her to have any one misunderstand, but it often occurred to her that it hurt more to be understood!
In the train en route to New York Doris sat very quiet, thinking of the two little faces she was leaving—forever! It amounted to that—as every woman knows.
Nothing but their faces held as the miles were dashed past—faces that portrayed the spiritual essence of the old, dear years—faces that would turn, from now on, to others, and take on new expressions, bear the mark of another's impress.
"Well, thank heaven," Doris presently broke out, "I haven't been a vamp mother, David."
Martin came from behind his newspaper.
"And because of that, Doris," he said, "you will have those girls coming back to you. They will want to come." He was thinking of Nancy.
"Yes. I have a sure feeling about that." Then: "How splendid it was of Joan to act as she did! She'd rather we thought her hard than to let us see her pain."
Martin stared. "You mean Nancy?" he asked.
"No. Nan, bless her, cannot disguise herself, but Joan can! Joan will suffer through her strength."