“A very dear, good, lovable, but passionate child,” Connie said. “Now let us talk of you and Johnny, Joan, of the future. Helen has told you that—that she—”
“She wishes to leave us soon? Yes.”
“And so,” Connie slipped her hand into Joan’s, “the marriage need not be long delayed.”
“Whenever—he wishes it,” Joan said, and for her life she could not put any warmth into her voice, and Connie, who noticed most things, noticed the chill coldness of it.
“And yet she must love Johnny, or she would not marry him,” Connie thought.
“I leave everything to you, and to Helen and to him.”
It seemed almost as if Joan had a strange disinclination to utter Johnny’s name. Johnny sounded so babyish, so childlike, so affectionate, yet she felt that she could not speak of him as “John.” It would sound hard and crude in the ears of those who loved him, and called him by the more tender name.
It was another shock to Connie later when Johnny came. She watched for the greeting between these two, and felt shocked and startled when Johnny took Joan’s hand and held it for a moment, then lifted it to his lips. No other kiss passed between them.
And Connie felt her own cheeks burning, and wondered why.
How strange! Lovers, and particularly accepted lovers, always kissed!