Joan was alone at last in such a bed as she had never occupied in her life, even in her most luxurious games of Pretend. To her inexperience the sheets felt as if made of softest silk—at its crest the Darcy establishment had never run to fine linen—and they were edged with lace which Joan longed frugally to transfer to a best petticoat; only that there seemed no need for her to trouble further about best petticoats, nor about anything else. Under the eager guidance of her "new mamma," drawer after drawer in the room she occupied had been opened to disclose piles of exquisite underthings, of the sort Joan had first encountered upon the Calloway clothes lines, except that these were white instead of pink.

"Pink's my color," explained the former Mrs. Calloway. "Besides, white lawngerie seems sort of better for a girl that's never been married, don't you think? Even if it isn't so becoming. 'Tain't as if there was anybody to see her in it," she added, with a conscious blush.

Joan found no suitable comment to make upon this treasure-trove. Her lips would not utter anything beyond a perfunctory "Thank you," even when further investigation discovered a closet hung with dresses of every sort, with peignoirs, with motor-coats and dainty wraps, with everything in the way of finery which every girl alive hopes at some time to possess, but which the daughter of Richard Darcy had learned to look upon from afar with an air of indifference.

"Are these all for me?" she asked dully.

"Of course they are! Just a few little models I had sent up on approval." (The ex-Mrs. Calloway invariably referred to her costumes in affectionate diminutives, as "little gowns," "little negligÉes," "little hats," etc., though the adjective could rarely be said to fit them.) "If these don't suit we'll get others—though anything ought to look good on your form, dearie." She added, clasping her hands, "It certainly is fun shoppin' for a daughter of your own!"—an outburst which might have struck some responsive chord in a heart less young than Joan's, less hard and tight and bitter with the tears that would not come.

Major Darcy had observed her apathy under this rain of largesse with some disapproval. It was not the first time he had secretly wished that his daughter might have inherited a trifle more of the Darcy manner. At length, as the girl stood looking about her new room silently, still with the strange lack of comment that seemed like indifference, he ventured a remonstrance.

"I don't think you quite realize how much time and thought and trouble your—er, your mother and I have expended on these little surprises for your home-coming, Dollykins. Or you would be more appreciative."

"My mother!" repeated Joan to herself with a sick gasp.

It was the bride who came to her rescue. "She's tired out, Major, that's all. And no wonder! She hardly ate a bite of dinner. You go right to bed and sleep, girlie," she advised comfortably. "In the morning you'll be better able to enjoy all your pretties."

So Joan was at last alone, wondering whether she would ever be able to enjoy anything again; alone in a strange room crowded with large blond bird's-eye maple furniture which reminded her oddly of her step-mother; with pale blue walls, a blue rug, blue silk covers on chairs and bed, blue stationery spread out on the desk, all to match. There was nothing, not a chair, nor book nor picture, to remind its forlorn inhabitant of home; until suddenly, lost amid the glitter of the silver on the dressing-table, she discovered a faded photograph of her mother which her father had for many years carried in his pocket. This she jerked out of the opulent silver frame that disguised it, and held hungrily to her cheek, going to bed with it finally under her pillow. It did not occur to her to wonder who had put it there. (But it was not Richard Darcy.)

Yet still the tears would not come. She lay staring into the dark with hot, dry, aching eyes, repeating agonizingly to herself the questions she had not found courage to ask her father—foolish, trivial questions that seemed almost irrelevant in the face of this overwhelming calamity.... What had he done with the furniture, their furniture, the dear, shabby tables and chairs and hangings which were part of the home Mary Darcy had given her life in making?... And where was Ellen? What had he done with Ellen? Was there to be nothing left?

Once she whispered aloud, "How could he?"—but resolutely turned her mind away from that. It did not bear thinking of. The luxury of the room seemed to crowd upon her, choking her.... The price of her father's shame!...

It seemed to her near morning when her door opened, softly. She began to shiver, thinking it must be her father come for the intimate explanatory talk which was inevitable between them. What could she say to him? How could she ever find anything to say to her father again?

But it was not Richard Darcy who tiptoed in. The lamp beside her bed clicked on, revealing a good deal of the former Mrs. Calloway in a marvellous nightgown, her golden head as carefully coiffed as for a ball.

"Major's off and going strong," she announced, "so I slipped away to see how you were gettin' on, dearie. I Had a kind of feelin' you wouldn't be asleep yet. I'm like that myself in a strange bed.... Look here," her voice changed as she saw the white and miserable face among the pillows—"you aren't holding it against your papa and me, girlie, because we sprung this on you as a surprise? I told Major we ought to wait till you came home! But it was you who introduced us, you know; and I knew it would be all right as soon as we got to know each other better. And Major wouldn't hear to waiting, was bound and determined to have me just as soon as he could get me. Men,"—she laughed her plump, merry laugh—"are such babies when it comes to havin' what they want right away, ain't they?"

"Are they?" said Joan dully.

"You take it from me they are! A man that doesn't want you quick don't want you at all. And I must say your father needed marryin' more than any one I ever saw! Spots all over his clothes, and that shiny in the back you could see your face in him. Your mother must have had a time keepin' that man neat! Besides, if we'd waited till you came, what would we have done with you on the honeymoon? Not," she added coyly, "that it's over yet, by any means! When he was on his death-bed Calloway said to me, says he, 'Effie May, our honeymoon never has been over, has it?' Some women are that way, just naturally affectionate and fond of makin' men feel at home. And both of us were real lonesome.... You don't blame me for marrying Major, do you?" she finished rather wistfully.

Joan said after a long pause, "No, I don't think I blame you, Mrs. Calloway."

The other gave an unexpected squeal of mirth. "Goodness' sakes, don't call me that! If you don't feel like callin' me 'mamma' yet"—(there was a hopeful pause, which Joan did not fill)—"then you might as well call me Effie May. I'm not so awfully much older than you, I guess—I was only sixteen when I eloped with my first. But there's one thing I wanted to tell you"—(her voice lost its confident note and became rather shy). "I married your father as much to get you as to get him, dearie. A man's easy enough to pick up anywhere, goodness knows! if you've got the looks. But a child—" she sighed. "That's something else again. I used to think I'd like to adopt one, only Calloway didn't want to be bothered—Say, it was more fun than anything I've ever done in my life, shopping for lawngerie and little models and all, and telling the girls in the stores they were for my little girl just coming home from boarding-school!..."

At this juncture, for some inexplicable reason—perhaps the warmth of a kindly human presence, perhaps sheer rage with the vulgar, impossible creature who, having purchased her father, expected also to purchase her—whatever brought them, Joan's tears suddenly arrived—a torrent, a deluge of them; in the midst of which her new mamma, with more tact than might have been expected of her, disappeared.