But--she had not dared return to her room, for fear of
finding Carron there.
If only she had had a father----
"_Vous etes roublee, ma fille_," said Joyselle, suddenly taking one of
her hands in his befurred ones; "what has happened? Can you not think of
me as your old papa, and tell me?"
She started, half-frightened, half angry. "I am not troubled, M.
Joyselle," she returned, in French. "I--have a headache, that is all."
Oh, time-honoured evasion; oh, classic lie, thou who hast served,
surely, since Eve's day, used without doubt by Helen of Troy, Cleopatra
and all the other unsaintly women, ancient and modern, whose stories are
so much more entertaining than those of the unco' guid--oh, Splendid
Mendax, where should we all be without you?
"A headache?" Joyselle's magnificent eyes looked kindly but searchingly
into hers. "No. Not that." Then, asking no further question, he leaned
back in his place and looked out over the fields on his left.
"Daughter--father--child--old man----" she told herself with set jaw,
"that is what he thinks. He is eight years younger than that brute
Gerald, too."
The road climbed dully up for half an hour, and then with a quick turn
stretched out over splendid downs, beyond which lay a narrow glittering
strip of grey sea.
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