"I don't want to hear about you," Joan broke in. "I am done with you.
Have you seen this play?"
"Yes." He found that in telling her so he could not meet her eyes.
"Well, the man who wrote that knew what you are, and, if he didn't,
every one that has seen me act in it, knows what you are." She paused,
breathing fast and trembling. "Good-bye," she said.
He went vaguely toward the door, then threw up his head defiantly.
"No," he said, "it's not going to be good-bye. I've found you. You
must let me tell you the truth about myself. Come, Joan, you're as
just as Heaven. You never read my explanations. You've never heard my
side of it. You'll let me come to see you and you'll hear me out.
Don't do me an injustice. I'll leave the whole thing in your hands
after that. But you must give me that one chance."
"Chance?" repeated Joan. "Chance for what?"
"Oh,"--Prosper flung up his lithe, long hands--"oh, for nothing but a
cleansing in your sight. I want what forgiveness I can wring from you.
I want what understanding I can force from you. That's all."
She thought, standing there, still and tall, her arms hanging, her
eyes wide and secret, as he had remembered them in her thin, changed,
so much more expressive face.
"Very well," she said, "you may come. I'll hear you out." She gave him
the address and named an afternoon hour. "Good-night."
It was a graceful and dignified dismissal. Prosper bit his lip, bowed
and left her.
As the door closed upon her, he knew that it had closed upon the only
real and vivid presence in his life. War had burnt away his glittering,
clever frivolity. Betty was the adventure, Betty was the tinsel; Joan
was the grave, predestined woman of his man. For the first time in his
life he found himself face to face with the cleanness of despair.