Trust Joan?  Of course he did, utterly and entirely.

“I should be unworthy of her if I didn’t,” he thought.  “In any case, I am not worthy of her.  It is all right!”

But was it all right?

Connie had been naturally a little anxious.  She, womanlike, had built up a series of tragedies in her mind, the worst of which was Johnny and Ellice lying injured and unconscious on some far distant roadway; the least a smashed and disabled car, and Johnny and Ellice sitting disconsolate on a roadside bank.

But here they were, all safe and sound, and Connie bustled about, hurrying up the long delayed dinner, making anxious enquiries, and feeling a sense of relief and gratitude for their safe return, about which she said nothing at all.

And now Connie was gone to bed, and Ellice too; and Johnny smoked his pipe and frowned over it, and asked himself questions to which he could find no answer.

“But I trust her, absolutely,” he said aloud.  “Still, if she knows the man”—­he paused—­“why hasn’t she spoken to me about him?  I am to be her husband soon, thank Heaven, but—­”

And then came more doubts and worries crowding into his mind, and his pipe went out, and he sat there, frowning at thoughts, greatly worried.

Johnny Everard looked up at the sound of the opening of the door.  In the doorway stood a little figure.  He had never realised how little she was till he saw her now, standing there with her bare feet and a thin white dressing-gown over her nightdress, her hair hanging in great waving tresses about her oval face and shoulders and far down her back.

She looked such a child—­and yet such a woman, her great eyes anxiously on his face.

“Johnny,” she said softly, “you have been worrying.”

He nodded, speechless.

“Why, Johnny?”

“Because—­because, Gipsy, I am a fool—­a jealous fool, I suppose.”

“If you doubt her honour and her honesty, Johnny, then you are a fool,” she said bravely, “because Joan could not be mean and treacherous and underhand.  It would not be possible for her.”

“I thought you did not—­like Joan?”

“And does that make any difference?  Even if I do not like her, must I be unjust to her?  I know she is fine and honourable and true and straight, and you must know that too, so—­so why should you worry, Johnny?  Why should you worry?”

“Why has she never said one word to me about this man?  Why did she refuse to recognise him that day when she saw you and him together?  Why does she go to Mrs. Bonner’s cottage to meet him late at night?”

He hurled at her all those questions that he had been asking himself vainly.

“I do not know why,” Ellice said gravely, “but I know that, whatever the reason is, it is honourable and honest.  Joan Meredyth,” she paused a little, with a catch of the breath, “Joan Meredyth could not be other than honest and true and—­and straight, Johnny.  It would not be her nature to be anything else.”