She knew how the same force could blot such as she was supposed to be from the inner circle!  How little they counted!

Oh! the bitterness of the knowledge that it was such girls as Patricia—­as Raymond believed her—­who were not free; who must snatch what they can from life and not resent what goes with it.  They must—­not care!  Outside the code there was no real freedom—­because there was no choice!  It was a place of chains and bars compared to the other.

The waves of humiliation and shame swept over Joan, but each time she emerged she held her head higher.

“And he left me—­to go my way and he went—­to Nancy!  He did not care!” It was anger now; proud, life-saving anger.  “If he had only cared!”

“And why—­should he?” The thought was like a dash of cold water in her face.

After all, why should he?  It was only play until that awful night!  That was the revealing hour of real danger.

Clutching her hands, Joan went over every step of the way upon which Raymond had gone with her.

It had all been a mad escapade in that time of mistaken freedom.  He and she had both been brought to the realization of the folly by a blow that had awakened them, not stunned them.  They had been forced to acknowledge the danger hidden in themselves.  It was in such whirlpools many were lost, but they——­

And at this point Joan recalled, as if he were before her now, the look in Raymond’s face when he gained control of himself!

Always, since that night, Joan had felt, when thinking of Raymond, that she never wanted to see him again.  She knew that he had never held any real part in her life and he would always hold her back, as she might him—­from proving the best that was in each other if they came into contact.

With this conclusion reached Joan had gained a secure footing.  As a man, detached from herself and her past, she knew that Raymond was worthy of love and happiness, just as, in her heart, she knew that she herself was.  But could others understand?  Others, like Nancy?

While she had been buffeted on a rough sea, since that stormy night in the studio, Raymond had drifted into his safe harbour, sooner.  There was nothing to hold him back—­and here Joan began to sob in self-pity; in pity for all girls, like Patricia and her, who were so lightly considered.

“We do not matter!” she murmured.  Then she dashed her tears away.  “But we must matter!”

She sprang up.  She flung the letters upon the embers; she gathered Cuff to her bosom and—­laughed!

It was her old, old laugh.  The laugh that held in its depth, not scorn of life, but an appreciation of it.

“It’s how we take it all, Cuff, my dear, just how we take it!  And, Cuff”—­here Joan held the little animal off at arms’ length and looked into his deep, serious eyes—­“I’m going to get the world by the tail again—­you watch me!”