"Yes, that is it," he agreed; "and you will have to hide away all traces of yourself, mustn't leave anything suspicious lying about. The old lady might have given me a day or two's notice;" he had returned to his letter, "hang it all, she says she will be here to-morrow."
Joan had pushed her chair back and stood up, her breakfast unfinished. She was staring at his down-bent head, struggling with a wild desire to scream, to cry out against the curtain of shame he was so wilfully sweeping across their life together. She fought down the impulse though and moved over to the window.
"You want me to go away and hide?" she asked from there, her voice dangerously quiet.
He glanced up at her. "Keep out of the mater's way," he acknowledged, "she would have seven fits."
"Why?" asked Joan.
"Why," he repeated, "good Lord, you don't know the mater. She——"
Joan interrupted. "You are ashamed of me," she spoke quickly, her face had flushed. "You have always been a little ashamed of me. You have never really looked at it as I did. I thought——" she broke off and turned away from him, stupid hot tears were blinding her eyes, she did not want to cry, it was so useless and childish.
Gilbert stuffed his mother's letter into his pocket and rose to his feet, stretching a little as he moved.
"Don't be ridiculous, kiddie," he said, "you must see it would not do for you to meet the mater. She is old-fashioned and—well, she would not understand."
"We could make her understand," Joan whispered, "if she saw we both really meant it."