"Of course I mean it. Haven't I told you over and over again that these
two dear but irritating old people look down at me from their awful
pile of years and only see me as a child?"
"But what will they do to you?"
Joan shrugged her shoulders. "Anything they like. I'm completely at
their mercy. For Mother's sake I try to be patient and put up with it
all. It's the only home I've got, and when you're dependent and haven't
a cent to bless yourself with, you can't pack up and telephone for a
cab and get out, can you? But it can't go on forever. Some day I shall
answer back, and sparks will fly, and I shall borrow money from the
coachman, who's my only friend, and go to Alice Palgrave and ask her to
put me up until Mother comes back. I'm a queer case, Martin--that's the
truth of it. In a book the other day I came across an exact description
of myself. I could have laughed if it hadn't hit me so hard. It said:
'She was a super-modern in an early-Victorian frame, a pint of
champagne in a little old cut-glass bottle, a gnome engine attached to
a coach and pair.'" She picked up a stone and flung it down the hill.
One eager wild thought rushed through Martin's brain. It had made his
blood race several times before, but he had thrown it aside because,
during all their talks and walks, Joan had never once looked at him
with anything but the eyes of a sister. As his wife he could free her,
lift her out of her anomalous atmosphere and take her to the city to
which her face was always turned. But he lacked the courage to speak
and continued to hope that some day, by some miracle, she might become
less superlatively neutral, less almost boyish in her way of treating
him. He threw it aside again, tempted as he was to take advantage of a
chance to bribe her into becoming his wife with an offer of life. Then
too, she was only eighteen, and although he was twenty-four and in the
habit of thinking of himself as a man of ripe years, he had to confess
that the mere idea of marriage made him feel awfully young and scared.
And so he said nothing and went on hoping.
Joan broke the silence. "Everything will be different when Mother comes
back," she said. "I shall live with her then, and I give you my word
I'll make up for lost time. So who cares? There are three good hours
before I face Grandmother. Let's enjoy ourselves."