In this mood Raymond strode into the Brier Bush with Mrs. Tweksbury at his heels.  They took a table near the fireplace and, rather arrogantly, Raymond looked about.

“No one was going to take him in!” was what his stern young eyes and dominant chin proclaimed.

He was of that type of man that gives the impression of being handsome without any of the damaging features so often included.  He was handsome because he was strong, well set up, and completely unconscious of himself.

He was always willing to pay the right price for what he wanted, but he meant to get good value!  He was lavish with what was his own, as Mrs. Tweksbury almost tearfully asserted, but about that he never spoke and always frowned down any reference to it.

He expected the usual thing at the Brier Bush, and was just enough to show some appreciation when he did not find it.

The rooms were unique and charming.  Elspeth Gordon was impressive as she walked about among her guests.  She might permit them to be amused; help, indeed, to give them a cheery hour in the busy day, but not for a moment would she admit what could be questionable in her scheme.

That being proved, Raymond critically attacked the bill of fare.  Its promise was like the atmosphere of the place, honest and wholesome.

No man is proof against such dishes as were presently set before him.  Raymond was so engrossed by their merit and so surprised by it that he forgot the main thing that had brought him to the Brier Bush until he felt Mrs. Tweksbury’s foot firmly and insistently pressing his.  He looked up.

Joan was passing their table and very slightly she inclined her head toward it.

Her eyes were what startled Raymond.  If eyes in themselves have no expression, then the soul, looking through, has full play.

All Joan’s youth and ignorance and unconscious wisdom shone forth.  Mrs. Tweksbury amused her, but the man at the table disturbed her.  She misinterpreted the calm glance he fixed upon her.  It was a disapproving glance, to be sure, and Joan shrank from that, but she felt that he was cruelly misjudging her and was so sure of himself that he dared to do it—­without even knowing!

This she resented with a flash of her wonderful eyes.

What Raymond really meant was—­doubt.  Not of her, but himself.

“Saucy witch!” whispered Mrs. Tweksbury; “Ken, test her, for my sake!” Again the foot under the table steered Raymond’s thoughts.

He found himself smiling up at Joan and, rising, offered her the third chair at his table.

She sat down quite indifferently, but graciously, and spread out her pretty hands.  Joan’s hands were lovely—­Raymond was susceptible to hands.  To him they indicated fineness or the reverse.  Art could do much for hands, but Nature could do more.

Quite as graciously and simply as Joan had done Raymond spread his own hands forth with the remark:  “At your mercy, Sibyl.”