“More bumptious, maybe!” Joan laughed.  She was again in high spirits, though why she could hardly have told.

“No, he isn’t, Joan!” Doris took up cudgels for the absent Cameron.  “You mustn’t get that idea.  He’s the most humble of fellows—­but he has a vision.  David says he plods along after his dreams and ideals, but when he grips them—­well, he grips!  I see now how right he was about Nancy and Ken.  They are suited to each other.”

“Yes—­they’re the carrying-on sort, Aunt Dorrie”; Joan looked wise and confident.  “They’re like their kind—­Nan is like you.  Away back in the Dondale days she used to gloat over all that went to your making, all your grandfathers and grandmothers.  She was fore-ordained to carry on, and so was Ken.  They’d be done for on paths without signboards.  Aunt Dorrie——­”

“Yes, dear.”

“I wonder why it was in me to—­to well, not to carry on?”

Doris bent and laid her thin, fair cheek against the short, bright hair again.

“Your way, little girl,” she whispered, “was to fly.  You had to try wings.”

“Well, I’m a homing pigeon, I reckon.”  And Joan tossed her short hair back.

Just then there was the toot of a horn outside.

“Uncle David!” Joan exclaimed, jumping up; “and by the manner of his toot I get an impression of exhilaration.

“Hello, Uncle Davey!” For Martin was filling the long window with his big presence.

He smiled on Joan—­he did it very naturally these days.  The girl was becoming strangely dear and companionable; then he looked at Doris as he always did, eagerly, gratefully.

“Jump into your coat and hat,” he said to her with a ring in his voice; “I’ve just had a telegram.  Bud’s coming!”

“Oh!  David,” Doris’s face flushed rosily.  “And you want me to go with you to meet him.  I am glad.”

“Yes,” Martin replied.  Doris was already on her way from the room.  Joan dropped to the hearth and resumed her rubbing.

So the inevitable was upon her!  She must not flinch!  She wondered if this was the last dropped stitch she must take up?

“Want me to go, too, Uncle David?” she asked, keeping her back rigid.

“No,” Martin was regarding the straight set shoulders and the pretty cropped hair.  “No!  You have too shocking an effect upon young men.  They look as if they had seen you before!  They must take you gradually.”  Martin laughed and lighted a cigar.  He was recalling Raymond’s face the night Joan had first appeared before him.

Joan struggled to keep control of the situation—­she suddenly smeared her face with her sooty fingers and turned with a grimace.

“Am I discovered even in this disguise?” she said.  Then: 

“Uncle Davey, I believe you have your private opinion of me still.”

“I have.  I’ll tell you now what it is—­your face needs washing.”

“I mean—­really!” the smudges acted as a mask and diverted attention.  “I wager you think girls like me—­the me that was, the working girls—­are, generally speaking, hounding young men on the matrimonial trail.”