The girl had a difficult problem before her. She wrestled with it throughout a sleepless night. She felt like Fate, with human destinies in her control.

At one moment her course seemed clear beyond the question of a doubt. It was unthinkable that her father should continue to recognize as his wife—her mother's successor!—a woman who had led an immoral life, who had earned the very money that supported them by living for years as the mistress of another man. Joan's cheeks burned with the thought.

At the next moment, she wondered what her father would do without the woman. She had no illusions left regarding Richard Darcy. He had never in his futile life stood on his own two feet. He was one of the inefficients, who must be cared for. Now, weakened morally and physically by the habit of luxurious living, he was less able than ever to take care of himself. Age was coming upon him rapidly. In the struggle of life, he must go down utterly to defeat—Unless his daughter could help him; and so far his daughter had been unable even to help herself.

The girl wondered, too, her heart sick within her, whether he would consent to give up the luxury he loved when he learned the shame that went with it.... Not that he would be able to forgive the woman! She knew his fixed standards, his pride of race, too well to expect of him any such magnanimity. The vulgarity of Effie May had been quite enough for him to swallow, as it was.

Joan thought that if, knowing his wife's past and utterly despising her, he yet kept her because of material benefits, it would be a shame she personally could not bear. Better, perhaps, that he be not put to the test.

And yet—in her mother's place, a woman of the town! (The girl was not able to make the fine distinctions in vice suggested by her step-mother.)

There had to be considered, also, the fraudulency of continuing to inflict such a woman on society in the guise of a lady.

The word brought back a rush of pity to Joan's heart. Effie May had done her best to be a "lady," poor creature, even to the extent of vainly trying to remodel her speech and her manners on those of her new family....

Joan, very white and drawn about the lips, ordered her horse in the early morning and went for a long gallop, hoping to clear her brain. When she returned, with nothing decided, she found Archie Blair in the library waiting for her.

She had never before been so glad to see him. It came upon her, with a rush of relief, that here was somebody with whom she could discuss her problem, whose advice she could ask. Archie knew! He was not very clever, perhaps, never subtle nor quick in his mental processes; but there was something sure about him, something utterly honest and dependable.

Evidently he had given others the same impression.

"Mrs. Darcy sent for me to come out and talk things over," he said gravely. "She wanted me to speak to you. She thought maybe I could make you understand better."

"Sent for you? Why, but you've never been one of her friends. You've never even pretended to be!"

"No," he said simply. "She isn't my sort, and she don't belong here. She's too flossy. But since she's here, I'm sorry for her—Now that you know, what are you going to do about it, Miss Darcy?"

Joan laid her problem before him with a frankness she would not have believed possible. She told him about her father. Never before, not even to Stefan Nikolai, had she disclosed Richard Darcy quite as she had come to know him latterly. It was an analysis that would have looked too brutal set down in black and white.

Archie listened thoughtfully, and with no appearance of embarrassment or consciousness that the conversation was unusual. There was something in his masculinity that never suggested sex.

"I get you," he said at last. "You can't make up your mind whether to upset the apple-cart and ease your conscience, or keep your mouth shut and let everybody live happily ever after."

Joan looked at him quickly. She had not expected quite such a lucid summing up of the situation from Archie. But he seemed unconscious of epigram.

"Did I ever tell you," he asked irrelevantly, "about an old gentleman that took our room after—well, after my mother went away—and let me go on living with him because he said I was too small to make any difference? A queer old bird he was, drinking himself to death as fast as he could, but mighty good to me. It was him—he, I mean—who taught me to read, and started me going to night school, and got me my first job. When he was about half-lit he used to talk to me as if I was just his age, about all sorts of things, life and books and folks—and one of the things he used to say kind of stuck in my head. 'When in doubt, Archibald' (he was the only person I ever knew who called me all of it!), 'when in doubt, always be a little kinder than necessary....' Pretty good dope, I think."

There was a long silence.

Then Joan said slowly: "Thank you, Archie! Yes, it is pretty good dope. And your old drunkard must have been a good deal of a man. You must tell me more about him some day."

She gave her shoulders a little shake of relief.

"Very well!—I won't upset the apple-cart. I didn't much want to, anyway!"

Archie smiled at her widely. It was a smile that said, "I knew it!" and "Good girl!" and a number of other things that made Joan blush. She had come by insensible degrees to value rather highly the good opinion of her protÉgÉ.

"But there's one thing sure," he said, sobering. "You'll be wanting to get out of the apple-cart yourself!"

That, too, Joan had faced in her long night's vigil. The question of her future was no longer hovering in space. It was here, immediate, urgent. She would have liked if possible not to spend another hour under the roof that had been supplied by the late Mr. Calloway.

They discussed the matter of her living in every aspect.

"You mean you haven't got a red cent to your name, Miss Darcy? Gee!" muttered Archie. "What was the old chap thinking of? Oil stocks! Might as well have put the money on the races." Even in his loyal mind the Major had undergone something of an eclipse.

"Better, because then we could have seen it run," sighed Joan. "However, it's gone, and now I've got to get busy!" (Archibald's language was rather contagious.)

She told him of her two alternatives. The stage he absolutely vetoed.

"It's no place for a lady," he said stubbornly, and would listen to no argument. Joan suddenly remembered that his mother had been an actress. She did not pursue the question.

"Newspaper work might do," he admitted. "A society reporter with the pull you've got ought to be worth some money."

"A society reporter!—You mean I'd have to go to my friends' houses and publish what happens there? Oh, Archie, I'm afraid I couldn't do that."

"Why not?" he said innocently. "They like it."

But Joan persisted. "I'm willing to report anything except society."

"Murders? Police courts?" he suggested grimly.

"Yes, if I must."

"Well, I guess not!" said Archie.

She laughed a little helplessly. "But, Archie, you veto everything I suggest! Really, you're not very helpful. Don't you understand that I've got to earn my living, right at once? I'm unskilled labor. Beggars can't be choosers. You'd suppose nothing was good enough for me!"

"And it isn't!... Gosh!" he said miserably—(she saw that his big hands were shaking)—"The idea makes me right down sick! A little delicate thing like you, out in the scramble with the rest of us—! I know what it is, you see. Bad enough for a fellow, sometimes. I know the things a working girl has to do and stand for. Honest to God, I'd rather see you married!" he groaned.

Unselfish devotion could go no farther, and Joan knew it.

She suddenly found herself on the verge of tears. She was tired out, mind, soul, and body. She would have liked to put her head down on his shoulder and simply cry till she was comforted. It was such a big, broad shoulder, so amply adapted to the bearing of burdens. She could make him happy, too, poor boy! One and all, people seemed to expect nothing of her but marriage—her father, Effie May, Stefan Nikolai, and now Archie. Perhaps they knew best. They were many and she only one. Temptation beset her—or was it inspiration? She did not know....

Meanwhile Archie was elaborating his forlorn idea. "Isn't there somebody who would do?" he urged. "Surely of all the fellows who've been hanging round, there ought to be one decent chap who'd give his head and ears to keep you out of this—to take you away from here himself?"

Joan made her decision.

"I think there is," she said tremulously. "Only—he won't say so."

"The big mutt!" cried Archie—and then paused. Her expression, the significance of her voice, began to penetrate his humility.

"You—you're not joshing me?" he gasped.

Joan put out quick hands as though to ward him off, suddenly afraid of the glow she had kindled in his face.

"Wait, Archie! I don't love you—you know that. Not as you love me, I mean. I don't believe I ever will love anybody that way. I—perhaps I'm not fine enough—But I do like you and trust you more than anybody else in the world. And so—if that's enough—If you want me—"

"Do I want you?" Archie gripped the edge of his chair to keep himself anchored to terra firma. "Say, Miss Darcy, I—I—"

"Don't you think," she suggested with a quivering smile, "that as we are about to become engaged, you might begin to call me 'Joan'?"

At that, with a great cry of "JOAN!" he gave up hold on the chair and terra firma together.

The sound of the overturned chair brought Effie May on a reconnoitering expedition to the upper landing of the stairs, which commanded an unsuspected view of the library. What she saw caused her to tiptoe away, smiling to herself a little sadly.

"His mouth's stopped all right—" she thought (with perfect truth)—"now that it doesn't matter!"