Moya brought her gaze back from the window. "I shall tell Mr. Kilmeny."
"But it isn't your secret. You have no right to."
"Have you forgotten that night in the cabin?" asked Moya in a low, clear voice. "If you have, I haven't."
"I don't care," Joyce answered petulantly. "He's so hard. Why can't he be nice about this? Why can't he understand—instead of sneering at me? It's a good deal harder for me than for him. Think of fifty years of Dobyans Verinder."
"Would you care to write Mr. Kilmeny a note? I'll take it to him if you like," Moya suggested gently.
Joyce considered. "No, I couldn't put it on paper. But—you might tell him."
"I don't think I could quite do that."
"If it came up right; just show him how I'm placed."
"Perhaps. Shall I tell him that you asked me to warn him?"
Joyce nodded, eyes shining. She was a young woman capable of changing her mind in the snap of a finger. Dainty and exquisite as apple blossoms, she was like a young plant with delicate tendrils forever reaching out. Love she must have and ever more of it. To admiration she was sensitive in every fiber. Whenever she thought of Jack Kilmeny's contempt tears scorched her eyes.