At sight of Joan, Prosper had won back instantly his old poise, his old feeling of ascendancy.
“Joan, Joan,” he said gently; “was ever anything so strange? Why didn’t you let me know? Why didn’t you answer my letters? Why didn’t you take my money? I have suffered greatly on your account.”
Joan laughed. Four years ago she would not have been capable of this laugh, and Prosper started.
“I wrote again and again,” he said passionately. “Wen Ho told me that you had gone, that he didn’t know anything about your plans. I went out to Wyoming, to our house. I scoured the country for you. Did you know that?”
“No,” said Joan slowly, “I didn’t know that But it makes no difference to me.”
They were still standing a few paces apart, too intent upon their inner tumult to heed any outward situation. She lowered her head in that dangerous way of hers, looking up at him from under her brows. Her color had returned and the make-up had a more natural look.
“Maybe you did write, maybe you did send money, maybe you did come back—I don’t care anything for all that.” She made a gesture as if to sweep something away. “The day after you left me in that house, Pierre, my husband, came up the trail. He was taking after me. He meant to fetch me home. You told me”—she began to tremble so violently that the jewels on her neck clicked softly—“you told me he was dead.”
Prosper came closer, she moving back, till, striking the chair, she sat down on it and looked up at him with her changed and embittered eyes.
“Would you have gone back to him, Joan Landis, after he had tied you up and branded your shoulder with his cattlebrand?”
“What has that got to do with it?” she asked, her voice lifting on a wave of anger. “That was between my man and me. That was not for you to judge. He loved me. It was through loving me too much, too ignorantly, that he hurt me so.” She choked. “But you—”