"No--at least I don't know. Did I?"
Her eyes were on her mother's face, watchful, tender, admiring. Mrs.
Ogden looked up and met those protecting, possessive eyes, full upon
her. She flushed deeply like a young girl.
Richard touched Joan's arm. "Have you forgotten how to talk?" he
demanded.
She laughed. "You never approve of anything I say, so perhaps silence is
a blessing in disguise."
"Oh, rot! Joan, look at my brother making an ass of himself over
Elizabeth. Shall I start looking at you like that? I'm much more in love
than he is, you know."
"Richard _dear_, you're not going to propose again in the middle of
dinner, are you?"
"No; but it's only putting off the evil day, I warn you."
He was not going to lecture her any more, he decided. Elizabeth had
written him a letter which was almost triumphant in tone; Joan was
making up her mind, it seemed; perhaps after all she would show some
spirit. In any case he found her adorable, with her black, cropped hair,
her beautiful mouth, and her queer, gruff voice. Her flanks were lean
and strong like a boy's; they suggested splendid, unfettered movement.
She looked all wrong in evening dress, almost grotesque; but to Richard
she appeared beautiful because symbolic of some future state--a
forerunner. As he looked at her he seemed to see a vast army of women
like herself, fine, splendid and fiercely virginal; strong, too, capable
of gripping life and holding it against odds--the women of the future.
They fascinated him, these as yet unborn women, stimulating his
imagination, challenging his intellect, demanding of him an explanation
of themselves.
He dropped his hand on Joan's where it lay in her lap. "Have you prayed
over your sword?" he asked gravely.
She knew what he meant. "No," she said. "I haven't had the courage to
unsheathe it yet."
"Then unsheathe it now and put it on the altar rails, and then get down
on your knees and pray over it all night."
Their eyes met, young, frank and curious, and in hers there was a faint
antagonism.