She would not answer even this except by the merest flicker of her eyelids.
“You have trusted me; now, trust me a little longer. My life is very complicated. This beautiful year with you, the year you have given to me, is just a temporary respite from—from all sorts of things. I’ve taught you a great deal, Joan. I’ve healed the wound that brute made on your shoulder and in your heart. I’ve taught you to be beautiful. I’ve filled your mind with beauty. You are a wonderful woman. You’ll live to be grateful to me. Some day you’ll tell me so.”
Her quiet, curved lips moved. “Are you tellin’ me good-bye, Prosper?”
It was impossible to lie to her. He bent his head.
“Yes, Joan.”
“Then tell it quick and go out and leave me here to-night.”
It was impossible to touch her. She might have been wrapped in white fire. He found that though she had not stirred a finger, his hand had shrunk away from hers. He got to his feet, all the cleverness which all day long he had been weaving like a silk net to catch, to bewilder, to draw away her brain from the anguish of full comprehension, was shriveled. He stood and stared helplessly at her, dumb as a youth. And, obedient, he went out and shut the door, taking the white patch of moonlight with him.
So Joan, having waited, behind an obstinately locked door, for his departure, came out at noon and found herself in the small, gay house alone.
She sat in one of the lacquered chairs and saw after a long while that the Chinaman was looking at her.
Wen Ho, it seemed, had been given instructions. He was to stay and take care of the house and the lady for as long as she wanted it, or him. Afterwards he was to lock up the house and go. He handed her a large and bulky envelope which Joan took and let lie in her lap.