But as the months went by, he appeared
to grow indifferent; and Joan, who got about twelve hours a day of it
outside, welcomed other subjects.
It surprised her when one evening after dinner he introduced it himself.
"What are you going to do when it's over?" he asked her. "You won't give
up the fight, will you, whatever happens?" She had not known till then
that he had been taking any interest in her work.
"No," she answered with a laugh, "no matter what happens, I shall always
want to be in it."
"Good lad," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "It will be an ugly
world that will come out of all this hate and anger. The Lord will want
all the help that He can get."
"And you don't forget our compact, do you?" he continued, "that I am to
be your backer. I want to be in it too."
She shot a glance at him. He was looking at the portrait of that old
Ironside Allway who had fought and died to make a nobler England, as he
had dreamed. A grim, unprepossessing gentleman, unless the artist had
done him much injustice, with high, narrow forehead, and puzzled, staring
eyes.
Pages:
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410