Before she could speak, could do more than look, Prosper Gael had jumped in, the door slammed, the car began its whirr, and they were gliding through the crowded, brilliant streets.
Joan had bent forward and was rocking to and fro.
“He called me ‘Joan,’” she gasped over and over. “He called me ‘Joan.’”
“That was Pierre?” Prosper had been forewarned by Jasper and had planned his part.
She kept on rocking, holding her hands on either side of her face.
“I must go away. If I see him again I shall die. I could never do that another time. O God! His hand touched me. He called me ‘Joan’ ... I must go....”
Prosper did not touch her, but his voice, very friendly, very calm, had an instantaneous effect. “I will take you away.”
She laughed shakily. “Again?” she asked, and shamed him into silence.
But after a while he began very reasonably, very patiently:
“I can take you away so that you need not be put through this unnecessary pain. I can arrange it with Morena. If Pierre sees you often enough, he will be sure to recognize you. Joan, I did not deserve that ‘again’ and you know it. I am a changed man. If you don’t know that now I have the heart of—of devotion, of service, toward you, you are indeed a blind and stupid woman. But you do know it. You must.”