“Isn’t that great?” he cried, flushing delightedly. “Isn’t it just great that we’ve got things straightened so that you can say that. Gee! This is a queer old world! There’s such a lot to do in it, and so few hours in the day. Seems like there ain’t time to stop long enough to hate anybody and keep a grouch on. A fellow’s got to keep hustling not to miss the things worth while.”
The liking in her eyes was actually wistful.
“That’s your way of thinking, isn’t it?” she said. “Teach it to me if you can. I wish you could. Good night.” She hesitated a second. “God bless you!” she added quite suddenly, almost fantastic the words sounded to her, that she, Joan Fayre, should be calling down devout benisons on the head of T. Tembarom—T. Tembarom!
HER mother was in her room when she reached it. She had come up early to look over her possessions and Joan’s before she began her packing. The bed, the chairs, and the tables were spread with evening, morning, and walking-dresses, and the millinery collected from their combined wardrobes. She was examining anxiously a laces-appliquéd-and-embroidered white coat, and turned a slightly flushed face toward the opening door.
“I am going over your things as well as my own,” she said. “I shall take what I can use. You will require nothing in London. What is the matter?” she said sharply, as she saw her daughter’s face.
Joan came forward, feeling it a strange thing that she was not in the mood to fight—to lash out and be glad to do it.
“Captain Palliser told me as I came up that Mr. Temple Barholm had been talking to you,” her mother went on. “He heard you having some sort of scene as he passed the door. As you have made your decision, of course I know I needn’t hope that anything has happened.”
“What has happened has nothing to do with my decision. He wasn’t waiting for that,” Joan answered her. “We were both entirely mistaken, Mother.”
“What are you talking about?” cried Lady Mallowe. “What do you mean by mistaken?”