He looked at her with sudden pity in his eyes. "She's changed since you knew her, Joan."
"Never mind that," she interrupted. "Tell me what she looks like."
He considered. "Rather placid, I should say—yes, decidedly placid, but you feel that's not quite a true impression when you look at her mouth; her mouth is mystifying."
"How mystifying?"
"Oh, I don't know. Full of possibilities—it always was. She's rather ample these days; not fat you know, but Junoesque, you can imagine that she would be when she began to put on flesh. Oh! And her hair's quite white, the nice silvery kind, and always wonderfully dressed. She's a fine looking woman but she's cranky in some ways; for instance, she won't come to England. She's never set foot on British soil since she left for South Africa, except to skim across it en route for the Continent. When she comes to Europe, she goes to Paris or Rome or some other place abroad. She says that she hates England. As a matter of fact I think she dislikes leaving South Africa at all, she says she's grown roots in the bigness of things out there. Lawrence tells me that when she feels bored with the gaieties of Cape Town, she goes right away to the veld; he thinks it's original and fine of her to need so much space to stretch in and so much oxygen to expand her lungs. Perhaps it is, I don't know. In any case she was awfully kind to me when I stayed with them; I was there for three months, you know, having a rest."
"Did she ever speak about me?" Joan asked, with an eagerness she could not hide.
"Only once; let me think. It was one night after dinner. I remember we were sitting alone on the terrace, and she asked me suddenly if I ever heard from you. I told her that I hadn't done so for years, that it was partly my fault, because I'd stopped writing. Then she said: 'I don't really want to discuss Joan Ogden, she belongs to the past, and I belong to all this, to my life here. I've given up being sentimental, and I find nothing either interesting or pathetic in failures. And I want you to promise me that if you should ever meet Joan, you won't talk about me; don't discuss me with her, she has no right to know.'" He paused. "I think those were her words, my dear, at all events they were very like that."
His voice was calm and even, and he turned to look at the pale face beside him. "I think she's succeeded in forgetting her disappointment over you," he said. "And if she hasn't quite got over it, she's managed to console herself pretty well. She's not the sort of woman to cry long over spilt milk."
He knew that he was being brutal. "But it's necessary," he thought; "it's vitally necessary. And if it rouses her even to a feeling of regret, better that than this lethargy of body and mind."
Joan stared out in front of her. All the expression seemed to have been wiped out of her face and eyes. "Shall we go?" she said presently. "I think it's getting late."