She turned round to him.
"No, Johnny, this time it isn't a joke. I mean absolutely what I say.
We're not to meet alone or to write until--father doesn't need me any
more. I can't think, I mustn't think, of anything but father now. Nothing
that you can say, or any one can say, will make me change my mind about
that now.... And please go, Johnny, because it's so hard while you're
here. And we _must_ do it. I'll never change, but you're free to, and
you _ought_ to. It's your duty to find some one more satisfactory
than me."
But Johnny appeared not to have heard her last words. He had been looking
about him, at the walls, the windows, the ceiling--rather as a young dog
sniffs some place new to him.
"Joan, tell me. Are you all right here? You oughtn't to be all alone here
like this, just with your father. Can't you get some one to come and
stay?"
"No," she answered bravely. "Of course it's all right. I've got Gladys,
who's been with us for years."
"There's something funny," he said, still looking about him. "It feels
queer to me--sort of unhappy."
"Never mind that," she said, hurriedly moving towards the door, as though
she had heard footsteps.
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