"Not one, Joan--not anybody in all the world to think twice about me but
you."

Her heart beat hard and her breath quickened, but she did not speak. Then
Barron, putting down his brushes and beginning to load a pipe, that his
next remark might not seem too serious, proceeded:

"I call you 'friend,' Joan, because I know you are one. And I want you to
think of me sometimes when I am gone, will you?"

He went on filling his pipe, and then, looking suddenly into her eyes, saw
there a light that was strange--a light that he would have given his soul
to put into paint--a light that Joe's name never had kindled and never
could. Joan wiped her hand across her mouth uneasily; then she twisted her
hands behind her back, like a schoolgirl standing in class, and made answer
with her eyes on the ground.

"Iss, I will, then, Mister Jan; an' maybe I couldn't help it if I would."

He lighted his pipe carefully before answering.

"Then I shall be happy, Joan."

But while she grew rose-red at the boldness of her sudden announcement, he
took care neither to look at her nor to let her know that he had realized
the earnestness with which she spoke. And when, ten minutes later, she had
departed, he mused speculatively on the course of their conversation,
asking himself what whim had led him to pretend to so much human feeling
and to lament his loneliness. This condition of his life he loved above all
others. No man, woman or child had the right to interfere with his selfish,