"I was sure of it," was Grace's agitated reply. "As I said before, I have misunderstood you miserably."
"And yet you had no word of blame for me?"
"I had no right to blame you. I had not lost what I believed you had won! It had never been mine. It was a mistake," he added, endeavoring to steady himself. "But don't mind me, Derrick. Let us try to set it right; only I am afraid you will have to begin again."
Derrick drew a heavy breath. He took up a paper-knife from the table, and began to bend it in his hands.
"Yes," he said, "we shall have to begin again. And it is told in a few words," he said, with a deliberateness painful in its suggestion of an intense effort at self-control. "Grace, what would you think of a man who found himself setting reason at defiance, and in spite of all obstacles confronting the possibility of loving and marrying—if she can be won—such a woman as Joan Lowrie?"
"You are putting me in a difficult position," Paul answered. "If he would dare so much, he would be the man to dare to decide for himself."
Derrick tossed the paper-knife aside.
"And you know that I am the person in question. I have so defied the world, in spite of myself at first, I must confess. I have confronted the possibility of loving Joan Lowrie until I do love her. So there the case stands."
Gradually there dawned upon the curate's mind certain remembrances connected with Joan. Now and then she had puzzled and startled him, but here, possibly, might be a solution of the mystery.
"And Joan Lowrie herself?" he asked, questioningly
"Joan Lowrie herself," said Derrick, "is no nearer to me to-day than she was a year ago."
