Yes, she would understand! One could always trust Joyce to understand, even if she were on the rack!
It was the next day--the third day after the unforgettable one at the Savoy--when my tame detective brought his budget. He would have come even sooner, he said, if there hadn't been a delay in the cable service.
Miss Reardon, Smith learned, had never been exposed as an impostor. She was respected personally, and had attained a certain amount of fame both in Boston (where she lived) and New York. She had been several times invited to visit England, but had never been able to accept until now. She had arrived by the ship and at the time stated. When we met her at the Savoy, she could not have been more than two hours in London. Therefore her story seemed to be true in every detail, and what was more, she had not been met at ship or train by any one.
I simply _hated_ poor dear little Smith. He ought to have nosed out _something_ against the woman! What are detectives _for_?
"You've been an angel to fight for my happiness," Joyce said. "I adore you for it. And so does Robert, I know--though he mustn't put such feelings into words, or even _have_ feelings if he can help it. There's nothing more to fight about now. The best thing I can pray for is that Robert may forget our--dream, and that he may be happy in this other dream--of June."
"And you?" I asked. "What prayer do you say for yourself? Do _you_ pray to forget?"
"Oh, no!" she answered. "I don't want to forget. I wouldn't forget, if I could. You see, it wasn't a dream to me. It was--it always will be--the best thing in my life--the glory of my life. In my heart I shall live it all over and over again till I die. I don't mind suffering. I've seen so much pain in the war, and the courage that went with it. I shall have my roses--not La France; deep red roses they'll be, red as blood, and sharp with thorns, but sweet as heaven. There!" and her voice changed. "Now you know, Princess! We'll never speak of this again, because we don't need to, do we?"
"No--o," I agreed. "You're a grand girl, Joyce, worth two of----But never mind! And I'll try to make you as happy as I can."
She thanked me for that; she was always thanking me for something. Soon, however, she broke the news that she must go away. She loved me and her work, yet she couldn't stop in London; she just couldn't. Not as things were. If Robert had been turning his back on England she might have stayed. But his promise to communicate with June daily through Opal bound him to London. Joyce thought that she might try India. She had friends there in the Army and in the Civil Service. She might do useful work as a nurse among the purdah women and their babies, where mortality was very high, she'd heard. "I _must_ be busy--busy every minute of the day," she cried, hiding her anguish with that smile of hers which I'd learned to love.