He put out his hand and caught hers and frankly squeezed it—squeezed it hard; and the unconventional clutch was a wonderful thing to her.
“It’s all right now, ain’t it?” he said. “We’ve got it straightened out. You’ll not be afraid to come back here if your mother wants you to.” He stopped for a moment and then went on with something of hesitation: “We don’t want to talk about your mother. We can’t. But I understand her, too. Folks are different from each other in their ways. She’s different from you. I’ll—I’ll straighten it out with her if you like.”
“Nothing will need straightening out after I tell her that you are going to marry Little Ann Hutchinson,” said Joan, with a half-smile, “and that you were engaged to her before you saw me.”
“Well, that does sort of finish things up, doesn’t it?” said T. Tembarom.
He looked at her so speculatively for a moment after this that she wondered whether he had more to say. He had.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” he ventured.
“Ask anything.”
“Do you know any one—just any one—who has a photo—just any old photo—of Jem Temple Barholm?”
She was rather puzzled.
“I know a woman who has worn one for eight years. Do you want to see it?”