young women to marry them.  And if they consented it was called 'being
engaged.'  Still prevails, so I am told, in certain classes."

"Thanks," said Joan.  "I have heard of it."

"I thought perhaps you hadn't from your tone," explained Madge.

"But if she's already engaged to him, why risk criticism of him," argued
Joan, ignoring Madge's flippancy.  "It's too late."

"Oh, she's going to break it off unless we all assure her that we find
him brainy," Madge explained with a laugh.  "It seems her father wasn't
brainy and her mother was.  Or else it was the other way about: I'm not
quite sure.  But whichever it was, it led to ructions.  Myself, if he's
at all possible and seems to care for her, I intend to find him
brilliant."

"And suppose she repeats her mother's experience," suggested Joan.

"There were the Norton-Browns," answered Madge.  "Impossible to have
found a more evenly matched pair.  They both write novels--very good
novels, too; and got jealous of one another; and threw press-notices at
one another's head all breakfast-time; until they separated.  Don't know
of any recipe myself for being happy ever after marriage, except not
expecting it."

"Or keeping out of it altogether," added Joan.

"Ever spent a day at the Home for Destitute Gentlewomen at East Sheen?"
demanded Madge.

"Not yet," admitted Joan.  "May have to, later on."

"It ought to be included in every woman's education," Madge continued.
"It is reserved for spinsters of over forty-five.  Susan Fleming wrote an
article upon it for the _Teacher's Friend_; and spent an afternoon and
evening there.  A month later she married a grocer with five children.
The only sound suggestion for avoiding trouble that I ever came across
was in a burlesque of the _Blue Bird_.  You remember the scene where the
spirits of the children are waiting to go down to earth and be made into
babies?  Someone had stuck up a notice at the entrance to the gangway:
'Don't get born.  It only means worry.'"

Flossie had her dwelling-place in a second floor bed-sitting-room of a
lodging house in Queen's Square, Bloomsbury; but the drawing-room floor
being for the moment vacant, Flossie had persuaded her landlady to let
her give her party there; it seemed as if fate approved of the idea.  The
room was fairly full when Joan arrived.  Flossie took her out on the
landing, and closed the door behind them.

"You will be honest with me, won't you?" pleaded Flossie, "because it's
so important, and I don't seem able to think for myself.  As they say, no
man can be his own solicitor, can he?  Of course I like him, and all
that--very much.  And I really believe he loves me.  We were children
together when Mummy was alive; and then he had to go abroad; and has only
just come back.  Of course, I've got to think of him, too, as he says.
But then, on the other hand, I don't want to make a mistake.  That would
be so terrible, for both of us; and of course I am clever; and there was
poor Mummy and Daddy.  I'll tell you all about them one day.  It was so
awfully sad.  Get him into a corner and talk to him.  You'll be able to
judge in a moment, you're so wonderful.  He's quiet on the outside, but I
think there's depth in him.  We must go in now."

She had talked so rapidly Joan felt as if her hat were being blown away.
She had difficulty in recognizing Flossie.  All the cocksure pertness had
departed.  She seemed just a kid.

Joan promised faithfully; and Flossie, standing on tiptoe, suddenly
kissed her and then bustled her in.

Flossie's young man was standing near the fire talking, or rather
listening, to a bird-like little woman in a short white frock and blue
ribbons.  A sombre lady just behind her, whom Joan from the distance took
to be her nurse, turned out to be her secretary, whose duty it was to be
always at hand, prepared to take down any happy idea that might occur to
the bird-like little woman in the course of conversation.  The bird-like
little woman was Miss Rose Tolley, a popular novelist.  She was
explaining to Flossie's young man, whose name was Sam Halliday, the
reason for her having written "Running Waters," her latest novel.

"It is daring," she admitted.  "I must be prepared for opposition.  But
it had to be stated."

"I take myself as typical," she continued.  "When I was twenty I could
have loved you.  You were the type of man I did love."

Mr. Halliday, who had been supporting the weight of his body upon his
right leg, transferred the burden to his left.

"But now I'm thirty-five; and I couldn't love you if I tried."  She shook
her curls at him.  "It isn't your fault.  It is that I have changed.
Suppose I'd married you?"

"Bit of bad luck for both of us," suggested Mr. Halliday.

"A tragedy," Miss Tolley corrected him.  "There are millions of such
tragedies being enacted around us at this moment.  Sensitive women
compelled to suffer the embraces of men that they have come to loathe.
What's to be done?"

Flossie, who had been hovering impatient, broke in.

"Oh, don't you believe her," she advised Mr. Halliday.  "She loves you
still.  She's only teasing you.  This is Joan."

She introduced her.  Miss Tolley bowed; and allowed herself to be drawn
away by a lank-haired young man who had likewise been waiting for an
opening.  He represented the Uplift Film Association of Chicago, and was
wishful to know if Miss Tolley would consent to altering the last chapter
and so providing "Running Waters" with a happy ending.  He pointed out
the hopelessness of it in its present form, for film purposes.

The discussion was brief.  "Then I'll send your agent the contract to-
morrow," Joan overheard him say a minute later.

Mr. Sam Halliday she liked at once.  He was a clean-shaven, square-jawed
young man, with quiet eyes and a pleasant voice.

"Try and find me brainy," he whispered to her, as soon as Flossie was out
of earshot.  "Talk to me about China.  I'm quite intelligent on China."

They both laughed, and then shot a guilty glance in Flossie's direction.

"Do the women really crush their feet?" asked Joan.

"Yes," he answered.  "All those who have no use for them.  About one per
cent. of the population.  To listen to Miss Tolley you would think that
half the women wanted a new husband every ten years.  It's always the one
per cent. that get themselves talked about.  The other ninety-nine are
too busy."

"You are young for a philosopher," said Joan.

He laughed.  "I told you I'd be all right if you started me on China," he
said.

"Why are you marrying.  Flossie?" Joan asked him.  She thought his point
of view would be interesting.

"Not sure I am yet," he answered with a grin.  "It depends upon how I get
through this evening."  He glanced round the room.  "Have I got to pass
all this crowd, I wonder?" he added.

Joan's eyes followed.  It was certainly an odd collection.  Flossie, in
her hunt for brains, had issued her invitations broadcast; and her fate
had been that of the Charity concert.  Not all the stars upon whom she
had most depended had turned up.  On the other hand not a single freak
had failed her.  At the moment, the centre of the room was occupied by a
gentleman and two ladies in classical drapery.  They were holding hands
in an attitude suggestive of a bas-relief.  Joan remembered them, having
seen them on one or two occasions wandering in the King's Road, Chelsea;
still maintaining, as far as the traffic would allow, the bas-relief
suggestion; and generally surrounded by a crowd of children, ever hopeful
that at the next corner they would stop and do something really
interesting.  They belonged to a society whose object was to lure the
London public by the force of example towards the adoption of the early
Greek fashions and the simpler Greek attitudes.  A friend of Flossie's
had thrown in her lot with them, but could never be induced to abandon
her umbrella.  They also, as Joan told herself, were reformers.  Near to
them was a picturesque gentleman with a beard down to his waist whose
"stunt"--as Flossie would have termed it--was hygienic clothing; it
seemed to contain an undue proportion of fresh air.  There were ladies in
coats and stand-up collars, and gentlemen with ringlets.  More than one
of the guests would have been better, though perhaps not happier, for a
bath.

"I fancy that's the idea," said Joan.  "What will you do if you fail?  Go
back to China?"

"Yes," he answered.  "And take her with me.  Poor little girl."

Joan rather resented his tone.

"We are not all alike," she remarked.  "Some of us are quite sane."

He looked straight into her eyes.  "You are," he said.  "I have been
reading your articles.  They are splendid.  I'm going to help."

"How can you?" she said.  "I mean, how will you?"

"Shipping is my business," he said.  "I'm going to help sailor men.  See
that they have somewhere decent to go to, and don't get robbed.  And then
there are the Lascars, poor devils.  Nobody ever takes their part."

"How did you come across them?" she asked.  "The articles, I mean.  Did
Flo give them to you?"

"No," he answered.  "Just chance.  Caught sight of your photo."

"Tell me," she said.  "If it had been the photo of a woman with a bony
throat and a beaky nose would you have read them?"

He thought a moment.  "Guess not," he answered.  "You're just as bad," he
continued.  "Isn't it the pale-faced young clergyman with the wavy hair
and the beautiful voice that you all flock to hear?  No getting away from
nature.  But it wasn't only that."  He hesitated.

"I want to know," she said.

"You looked so young," he answered.  "I had always had the idea that it
was up to the old people to put the world to rights--that all I had to do
was to look after myself.  It came to me suddenly while you were talking
to me--I mean while I was reading you: that if you were worrying yourself
about it, I'd got to come in, too--that it would be mean of me not to.  It
wasn't like being preached to.  It was somebody calling for help."

Instinctively she held out her hand and he grasped it.

Flossie came up at the same instant.  She wanted to introduce him to Miss
Lavery, who had just arrived.

"Hullo!" she said.  "Are you two concluding a bargain?"

"Yes," said Joan.  "We are founding the League of Youth.  You've got to
be in it.  We are going to establish branches all round the world."

Flossie's young man was whisked away.  Joan, who had seated herself in a
small chair, was alone for a few minutes.

Miss Tolley had chanced upon a Human Document, with the help of which she
was hopeful of starting a "Press Controversy" concerning the morality, or
otherwise, of "Running Waters."  The secretary stood just behind her,
taking notes.  They had drifted quite close.  Joan could not help
overhearing.

"It always seemed to me immoral, the marriage ceremony," the Human
Document was explaining.  She was a thin, sallow woman, with an untidy
head and restless eyes that seemed to be always seeking something to look
at and never finding it.  "How can we pledge the future?  To bind oneself
to live with a man when perhaps we have ceased to care for him; it's
hideous."

Miss Tolley murmured agreement.

"Our love was beautiful," continued the Human Document, eager,
apparently, to relate her experience for the common good; "just because
it was a free gift.  We were not fettered to one another.  At any moment
either of us could have walked out of the house.  The idea never occurred
to us; not for years--five, to be exact."

The secretary, at a sign from Miss Tolley, made a memorandum of it.

"And then did your feelings towards him change suddenly?" questioned Miss
Tolley.

"No," explained the Human Document, in the same quick, even tones; "so
far as I was concerned, I was not conscious of any alteration in my own
attitude.  But he felt the need of more solitude--for his development.  We
parted quite good friends."

"Oh," said Miss Tolley.  "And were there any children?"

"Only two," answered the Human Document, "both girls."

"What has become of them?" persisted Miss Tolley.

The Human Document looked offended.  "You do not think I would have
permitted any power on earth to separate them from me, do you?" she
answered.  "I said to him, 'They are mine, mine.  Where I go, they go.
Where I stay, they stay.'  He saw the justice of my argument."

"And they are with you now?" concluded Miss Tolley.

"You must come and see them," the Human Document insisted.  "Such dear,
magnetic creatures.  I superintend their entire education myself.  We
have a cottage in Surrey.  It's rather a tight fit.  You see, there are
seven of us now.  But the three girls can easily turn in together for a
night, Abner will be delighted."

"Abner is your second?" suggested Miss Tolley.

"My third," the Human Document corrected her.  "After Eustace, I married
Ivanoff.  I say 'married' because I regard it as the holiest form of
marriage.  He had to return to his own country.  There was a political
movement on foot.  He felt it his duty to go.  I want you particularly to
meet the boy.  He will interest you."

Miss Tolley appeared to be getting muddled.  "Whose boy?" she demanded.

"Ivanoff's," explained the Human Document.  "He was our only child."

Flossie appeared, towing a white-haired, distinguished-looking man, a Mr.
Folk.  She introduced him and immediately disappeared.  Joan wished she
had been left alone a little longer.  She would like to have heard more.
Especially was she curious concerning Abner, the lady's third.  Would the
higher moral law compel him, likewise, to leave the poor lady saddled
with another couple of children?  Or would she, on this occasion, get
in--or rather, get off, first?  Her own fancy was to back Abner.  She did
catch just one sentence before Miss Tolley, having obtained more food for
reflection than perhaps she wanted, signalled to her secretary that the
note-book might be closed.

"Woman's right to follow the dictates of her own heart, uncontrolled by
any law," the Human Document was insisting: "That is one of the first
things we must fight for."

Mr. Folk was a well-known artist.  He lived in Paris.  "You are
wonderfully like your mother," he told Joan.  "In appearance, I mean," he
added.  "I knew her when she was Miss Caxton.  I acted with her in
America."

Joan made a swift effort to hide her surprise.  She had never heard of
her mother having been upon the stage.

"I did not know that you had been an actor," she answered.

"I wasn't really," explained Mr. Folk.  "I just walked and talked
naturally.  It made rather a sensation at the time.  Your mother was a
genius.  You have never thought of going on the stage yourself?"

"No," said Joan.  "I don't think I've got what you call the artistic
temperament.  I have never felt drawn towards anything of that sort."

"I wonder," he said.  "You could hardly be your mother's daughter without
it."

"Tell me," said Joan.  "What was my mother like?  I can only remember her
as more or less of an invalid."

He did not reply to her question.  "Master or Mistress Eminent Artist,"
he said; "intends to retire from his or her particular stage, whatever it
may be.  That paragraph ought always to be put among the obituary
notices."

"What's your line?" he asked her.  "I take it you have one by your being
here.  Besides, I am sure you have.  I am an old fighter.  I can tell the
young soldier.  What's your regiment?"

Joan laughed.  "I'm a drummer boy," she answered.  "I beat my drum each
week in a Sunday newspaper, hoping the lads will follow."

"You feel you must beat that drum," he suggested.  "Beat it louder and
louder and louder till all the world shall hear it."

"Yes," Joan agreed, "I think that does describe me."

He nodded.  "I thought you were an artist," he said.  "Don't let them
ever take your drum away from you.  You'll go to pieces and get into
mischief without it."

"I know an old actress," he continued.  "She's the mother of four.  They
are all on the stage and they've all made their mark.  The youngest was
born in her dressing-room, just after the curtain had fallen.  She was
playing the Nurse to your mother's Juliet.  She is still the best Nurse
that I know.  'Jack's always worrying me to chuck it and devote myself to
the children,' she confided to me one evening, while she was waiting for
her cue.  'But, as I tell him, I'm more helpful to them being with them
half the day alive than all the day dead.'  That's an anecdote worth
remembering, when your time comes.  If God gives woman a drum he doesn't
mean man to take it away from her.  She hasn't got to be playing it for
twenty-four hours a day.  I'd like you to have seen your mother's
Cordelia."

Flossie was tacking her way towards them.  Joan acted on impulse.  "I
wish you'd give me your address," she said "where I could write to you.
Or perhaps you would not mind my coming and seeing you one day.  I would
like you to tell me more about my mother."

He gave her his address in Paris where he was returning almost
immediately.

"Do come," he said.  "It will take me back thirty-three years.  I
proposed to your mother on La Grande Terrasse at St. Germain.  We will
walk there.  I'm still a bachelor."  He laughed, and, kissing her hand,
allowed himself to be hauled away by Flossie, in exchange for Mrs.
Phillips, for whom Miss Lavery had insisted on an invitation.

Joan had met Mrs. Phillips several times; and once, on the stairs, had
stopped and spoken to her; but had never been introduced to her formally
till now.

"We have been meaning to call on you so often," panted Mrs. Phillips.  The
room was crowded and the exertion of squeezing her way through had winded
the poor lady.  "We take so much interest in your articles.  My husband--"
she paused for a second, before venturing upon the word, and the aitch
came out somewhat over-aspirated--"reads them most religiously.  You must
come and dine with us one evening."

Joan answered that she would be very pleased.

"I will find out when Robert is free and run up and let you know," she
continued.  "Of course, there are so many demands upon him, especially
during this period of national crisis, that I spare him all the social
duties that I can.  But I shall insist on his making an exception in your
case."

Joan murmured her sense of favour, but hoped she would not be allowed to
interfere with more pressing calls upon Mr. Phillips's time.

"It will do him good," answered Mrs. Phillips; "getting away from them
all for an hour or two.  I don't see much of him myself."

She glanced round and lowered her voice.  "They tell me," she said, "that
you're a B.A."

"Yes," answered Joan.  "One goes in for it more out of vanity, I'm
afraid, than for any real purpose that it serves."

"I took one or two prizes myself," said Mrs. Phillips.  "But, of course,
one forgets things.  I was wondering if you would mind if I ran up
occasionally to ask you a question.  Of course, as you know, my 'usband
'as 'ad so few advantages"--the lady's mind was concerned with more
important matters, and the aspirates, on this occasion, got themselves
neglected--"It is wonderful what he 'as done without them.  But if, now
and then, I could 'elp him--"

There was something about the poor, foolish painted face, as it looked up
pleadingly, that gave it a momentary touch of beauty.

"Do," said Joan, speaking earnestly.  "I shall be so very pleased if you
will."

"Thank you," said the woman.  Miss Lavery came up in a hurry to introduce
her to Miss Tolley.  "I am telling all my friends to read your articles,"
she added, resuming the gracious patroness, as she bowed her adieus.

Joan was alone again for a while.  A handsome girl, with her hair cut
short and parted at the side, was discussing diseases of the spine with a
curly-headed young man in a velvet suit.  The gentleman was describing
some of the effects in detail.  Joan felt there was danger of her being
taken ill if she listened any longer; and seeing Madge's brother near the
door, and unoccupied, she made her way across to him.

Niel Singleton, or Keeley, as he called himself upon the stage, was quite
unlike his sister.  He was short and plump, with a preternaturally solemn
face, contradicted by small twinkling eyes.  He motioned Joan to a chair
and told her to keep quiet and not disturb the meeting.

"Is he brainy?" he whispered after a minute.

"I like him," said Joan.

"I didn't ask you if you liked him," he explained to her.  "I asked you
if he was brainy.  I'm not too sure that you like brainy men."

"Yes, I do," said Joan.  "I like you, sometimes."

"Now, none of that," he said severely.  "It's no good your thinking of
me.  I'm wedded to my art.  We are talking about Mr. Halliday."

"What does Madge think of him?" asked Joan.

"Madge has fallen in love with him, and her judgment is not to be relied
upon," he said.  "I suppose you couldn't answer a straight question, if
you tried."

"Don't be so harsh with me," pleaded Joan meekly.  "I'm trying to think.
Yes," she continued, "decidedly he's got brains."

"Enough for the two of them?" demanded Mr. Singleton.  "Because he will
want them.  Now think before you speak."

Joan considered.  "Yes," she answered.  "I should say he's just the man
to manage her."

"Then it's settled," he said.  "We must save her."

"Save her from what?" demanded Joan.

"From his saying to himself: 'This is Flossie's idea of a party.  This is
the sort of thing that, if I marry her, I am letting myself in for.'  If
he hasn't broken off the engagement already, we may be in time."

He led the way to the piano.  "Tell Madge I want her," he whispered.  He
struck a few notes; and then in a voice that drowned every other sound in
the room, struck up a comic song.

The effect was magical.

He followed it up with another.  This one with a chorus, consisting
chiefly of "Umpty Umpty Umpty Umpty Ay," which was vociferously encored.

By the time it was done with, Madge had discovered a girl who could sing
"Three Little Pigs;" and a sad, pale-faced gentleman who told stories.  At
the end of one of them Madge's brother spoke to Joan in a tone more of
sorrow than of anger.

"Hardly the sort of anecdote that a truly noble and high-minded young
woman would have received with laughter," he commented.

"Did I laugh?" said Joan.

"Your having done so unconsciously only makes the matter worse," observed
Mr. Singleton.  "I had hoped it emanated from politeness, not enjoyment."

"Don't tease her," said Madge.  "She's having an evening off."

Joan and the Singletons were the last to go.  They promised to show Mr.
Halliday a short cut to his hotel in Holborn.

"Have you thanked Miss Lessing for a pleasant evening?" asked Mr.
Singleton, turning to Mr. Halliday.

He laughed and put his arm round her.  "Poor little woman," he said.
"You're looking so tired.  It was jolly at the end."  He kissed her.

He had passed through the swing doors; and they were standing on the
pavement waiting for Joan's bus.

"Why did we all like him?" asked Joan.  "Even Miss Lavery.  There's
nothing extraordinary about him."

"Oh yes there is," said Madge.  "Love has lent him gilded armour.  From
his helmet waves her crest," she quoted.  "Most men look fine in that
costume.  Pity they can't always wear it."

The conductor seemed impatient.  Joan sprang upon the step and waved her
hand.




CHAPTER VII


Joan was making herself a cup of tea when there came a tap at the door.
It was Mrs. Phillips.

"I heard you come in," she said.  "You're not busy, are you?"

"No," answered Joan.  "I hope you're not.  I'm generally in about this
time; and it's always nice to gossip over a dish of tea."

"Why do you say 'dish' of tea!" asked Mrs. Phillips, as she lowered
herself with evident satisfaction into the easy chair Joan placed for
her.

"Oh, I don't know," laughed Joan.  "Dr. Johnson always talked of a 'dish'
of tea.  Gives it a literary flavour."

"I've heard of him," said Mrs. Phillips.  "He's worth reading, isn't he?"

"Well, he talked more amusingly than he wrote," explained Joan.  "Get
Boswell's Life of him.  Or I'll lend you mine," she added, "if you'll be
careful of it.  You'll find all the passages marked that are best worth
remembering.  At least, I think so."

"Thanks," said Mrs. Phillips.  "You see, as the wife of a public man, I
get so little time for study."

"Is it settled yet?" asked Joan.  "Are they going to make room for him in
the Cabinet?

"I'm afraid so," answered Mrs. Phillips.  "Oh, of course, I want him to,"
she corrected herself.  "And he must, of course, if the King insists upon
it.  But I wish it hadn't all come with such a whirl.  What shall I have
to do, do you think?"

Joan was pouring out the tea.  "Oh, nothing," she answered, "but just be
agreeable to the right people.  He'll tell you who they are.  And take
care of him."

"I wish I'd taken more interest in politics when I was young," said Mrs.
Phillips.  "Of course, when I was a girl, women weren't supposed to."

"Do you know, I shouldn't worry about them, if I were you," Joan advised
her.  "Let him forget them when he's with you.  A man can have too much
of a good thing," she laughed.

"I wonder if you're right," mused Mrs. Phillips.  "He does often say that
he'd just as soon I didn't talk about them."

Joan shot a glance from over her cup.  The poor puzzled face was staring
into the fire.  Joan could almost hear him saying it.

"I'm sure I am," she said.  "Make home-coming a change to him.  As you
said yourself the other evening.  It's good for him to get away from it
all, now and then."

"I must try," agreed Mrs. Phillips, looking up.  "What sort of things
ought I to talk to him about, do you think?"

Joan gave an inward sigh.  Hadn't the poor lady any friends of her own.
"Oh, almost anything," she answered vaguely: "so long as it's cheerful
and non-political.  What used you to talk about before he became a great
man?"

There came a wistful look into the worried eyes.  "Oh, it was all so
different then," she said.  "'E just liked to--you know.  We didn't seem
to 'ave to talk.  'E was a rare one to tease.  I didn't know 'ow clever
'e was, then."

It seemed a difficult case to advise upon.  "How long have you been
married?" Joan asked.

"Fifteen years," she answered.  "I was a bit older than 'im.  But I've
never looked my age, they tell me.  Lord, what a boy 'e was!  Swept you
off your feet, like.  'E wasn't the only one.  I'd got a way with me, I
suppose.  Anyhow, the men seemed to think so.  There was always a few
'anging about.  Like flies round a 'oney-pot, Mother used to say."  She
giggled.  "But 'e wouldn't take No for an answer.  And I didn't want to
give it 'im, neither.  I was gone on 'im, right enough.  No use saying I
wasn't."

"You must be glad you didn't say No," suggested Joan.

"Yes," she answered, "'E's got on.  I always think of that little poem,
'Lord Burleigh,'" she continued; "whenever I get worrying about myself.
Ever read it?"

"Yes," answered Joan.  "He was a landscape painter, wasn't he?"

"That's the one," said Mrs. Phillips.  "I little thought I was letting
myself in for being the wife of a big pot when Bob Phillips came along in
'is miner's jacket."

"You'll soon get used to it," Joan told her.  "The great thing is not to
be afraid of one's fate, whatever it is; but just to do one's best."  It
was rather like talking to a child.

"You're the right sort to put 'eart into a body.  I'm glad I came up,"
said Mrs. Phillips.  "I get a bit down in the mouth sometimes when 'e
goes off into one of 'is brown studies, and I don't seem to know what
'e's thinking about.  But it don't last long.  I was always one of the
light-'earted ones."

They discussed life on two thousand a year; the problems it would
present; and Mrs. Phillips became more cheerful.  Joan laid herself out
to be friendly.  She hoped to establish an influence over Mrs. Phillips
that should be for the poor lady's good; and, as she felt instinctively,
for poor Phillips's also.  It was not an unpleasing face.  Underneath the
paint, it was kind and womanly.  Joan was sure he would like it better
clean.  A few months' attention to diet would make a decent figure of her
and improve her wind.  Joan watched her spreading the butter a quarter of
an inch thick upon her toast and restrained with difficulty the impulse
to take it away from her.  And her clothes!  Joan had seen guys carried
through the streets on the fifth of November that were less obtrusive.

She remembered, as she was taking her leave, what she had come for: which
was to invite Joan to dinner on the following Friday.

"It's just a homely affair," she explained.  She had recovered her form
and was now quite the lady again.  "Two other guests beside yourself: a
Mr. Airlie--I am sure you will like him.  He's so dilletanty--and Mr.