And Joan, in like manner, thrashed about.  It was not so much her actions that caused her alarm—­she had played most sincerely—­but it was the power behind the play that caused her to tremble and grow hot and cold.  What was it within her that had driven her where wiser girls would fear to stray?  What was it that was not love in the least and yet had caused her heart to beat at Raymond’s touch or glance?  Whatever it was, Joan concluded, it could not be depended upon.  It could lay waste every holy spot unless it were understood and controlled, and Joan set herself to the task.

The first step was to get away.  That was inevitable.

After a few months—­and Joan was sure Patricia could not run in harness longer than that—­they could both come back, saner and better women.  Then Doris would be called into action; no more butting against the pricks and calling it freedom!

In the meantime, Patricia and Joan worked madly to get away and still secure Sylvia’s interests.

Telegrams passed to and fro.  Sylvia was fair enough to see both sides, and while she was irritated at being disturbed she did not resent it and even bade Patricia and Joan success with honest enthusiasm.

“I’ll run back and see to things,” she wrote; “I’m making a lot of money.”

And then Patricia tucked Joan, so to speak, under her frail wing and took to flight.

Chicago was new territory to both the girls but Patricia, from the necessity, as she told Joan, of grubbing, had become an adept at finding shelter.

After a week at a hotel, while she settled herself in business, Patricia had free hours for home-hunting, and she and Joan made a lark of it.

Patricia had the enviable power of shutting business from her own time, and she quickly discerned that Joan needed prompt and definite interests to hold her to what they had undertaken.

And the venture had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions to Patricia.  She feverishly desired it to be a success.

She realized that Joan was being torn by conflicting emotions while she was idle and alone.  She asked no questions; appeared not to notice Joan’s teary eyes and pensive mouth.  Wisely she made Joan feel her own need of her—­to that Joan responded at once.

“Joan, I never had a home in my life before,” she confided while they flitted from one apartment to another.  “I used to walk around in strange cities and peep in people’s windows, just to see homes!

“After my father died, I rustled about on the little money he left, and I got to sneaking into other women’s homes.  I didn’t mean harm at first, but after awhile it seemed so easy to sneak and so hard to—­make good!  But down in my heart, as truly as God hears me, I’ve been homesick for—­what I never had.”

“Pat!  Of all things—­you are crying!” Joan looked frightened.

“Well, let me cry!” sniveled Patricia.  “I’ve never given myself that luxury, either.”