Agricultural Interest shall accept his Socialism.  It will be a victory
for both of us.

"If he gain his end, what do the means matter?" he continued, as Joan did
not answer.  "Food may be dearer; the Unions can square that by putting
up wages; while the poor devil of a farm labourer will at last get fair
treatment.  We can easily insist upon that.  What do you think,
yourself?"

"About Protection," she answered.  "It's one of the few subjects I
haven't made up my mind about."

He laughed.  "You will find all your pet reforms depend upon it, when you
come to work them out," he said.  "You can't have a minimum wage without
a minimum price."

They had risen.

"I'll give him your message," said Joan.  "But I don't see him exchanging
his principles even for your support.  I admit it's important."

"Talk it over with him," he said.  "And bear this in mind for your own
guidance."  He took a step forward, which brought his face quite close to
hers: "If he fails, and all his life's work goes for nothing, I shall be
sorry; but I shan't break my heart.  He will."

Joan dropped a note into Phillips's letter-box on her return home, saying
briefly that she wished to see him; and he sent up answer asking her if
she would come to the gallery that evening, and meet him after his
speech, which would be immediately following the dinner hour.

It was the first time he had risen since his appointment, and he was
received with general cheers.  He stood out curiously youthful against
the background of grey-haired and bald-headed men behind him; and there
was youth also in his clear, ringing voice that not even the vault-like
atmosphere of that shadowless chamber could altogether rob of its
vitality.  He spoke simply and good-humouredly, without any attempt at
rhetoric, relying chiefly upon a crescendo of telling facts that
gradually, as he proceeded, roused the House to that tense stillness that
comes to it when it begins to think.

"A distinctly dangerous man," Joan overheard a little old lady behind her
comment to a friend.  "If I didn't hate him, I should like him."

He met her in the corridor, and they walked up and down and talked, too
absorbed to be aware of the curious eyes that were turned upon them.  Joan
gave him Carleton's message.

"It was clever of him to make use of you," he said.  "If he'd sent it
through anybody else, I'd have published it."

"You don't think it even worth considering?" suggested Joan.

"Protection?" he flashed out scornfully.  "Yes, I've heard of that.  I've
listened, as a boy, while the old men told of it to one another, in thin,
piping voices, round the fireside; how the labourers were flung eight-and-
sixpence a week to die on, and the men starved in the towns; while the
farmers kept their hunters, and got drunk each night on fine old crusted
port.  Do you know what their toast was in the big hotels on market day,
with the windows open to the street: 'To a long war and a bloody one.'  It
would be their toast to-morrow, if they had their way.  Does he think I
am going to be a party to the putting of the people's neck again under
their pitiless yoke?"

"But the people are more powerful now," argued Joan.  "If the farmer
demanded higher prices, they could demand higher wages."

"They would never overtake the farmer," he answered, with a laugh.  "And
the last word would always be with him.  I am out to get rid of the
landlords," he continued, "not to establish them as the permanent rulers
of the country, as they are in Germany.  The people are more
powerful--just a little, because they are no longer dependent on the
land.  They can say to the farmer, 'All right, my son, if that's your
figure, I'm going to the shop next door--to South America, to Canada, to
Russia.'  It isn't a satisfactory solution.  I want to see England happy
and healthy before I bother about the Argentine.  It drives our men into
the slums when they might be living fine lives in God's fresh air.  In
the case of war it might be disastrous.  There, I agree with him.  We
must be able to shut our door without fear of having to open it ourselves
to ask for bread.  How would Protection accomplish that?  Did he tell
you?"

"Don't eat me," laughed Joan.  "I haven't been sent to you as a
missionary.  I'm only a humble messenger.  I suppose the argument is
that, good profits assured to him, the farmer would bustle up and produce
more."

"Can you see him bustling up?" he answered with a laugh; "organizing
himself into a body, and working the thing out from the point of view of
the public weal?  I'll tell you what nine-tenths of him would do: grow
just as much or little as suited his own purposes; and then go to sleep.
And Protection would be his security against ever being awakened."

"I'm afraid you don't like him," Joan commented.

"He will be all right in his proper place," he answered: "as the servant
of the public: told what to do, and turned out of his job if he doesn't
do it.  My scheme does depend upon Protection.  You can tell him that.
But this time, it's going to be Protection for the people."

They were at the far end of the corridor; and the few others still
promenading were some distance away.  She had not delivered the whole of
her message.  She crossed to a seat, and he followed her.  She spoke with
her face turned away from him.

"You have got to consider the cost of refusal," she said.  "His offer
wasn't help or neutrality: it was help or opposition by every means in
his power.  He left me in no kind of doubt as to that.  He's not used to
being challenged and he won't be squeamish.  You will have the whole of
his Press against you, and every other journalistic and political
influence that he possesses.  He's getting a hold upon the working
classes.  The _Sunday Post_ has an enormous sale in the manufacturing
towns; and he's talking of starting another.  Are you strong enough to
fight him?"

She very much wanted to look at him, but she would not.  It seemed to her
quite a time before he replied.

"Yes," he answered, "I'm strong enough to fight him.  Shall rather enjoy
doing it.  And it's time that somebody did.  Whether I'm strong enough to
win has got to be seen."

She turned and looked at him then.  She wondered why she had ever thought
him ugly.

"You can face it," she said: "the possibility of all your life's work
being wasted?"

"It won't be wasted," he answered.  "The land is there.  I've seen it
from afar and it's a good land, a land where no man shall go hungry.  If
not I, another shall lead the people into it.  I shall have prepared the
way."

She liked him for that touch of exaggeration.  She was so tired of the
men who make out all things little, including themselves and their own
work.  After all, was it exaggeration?  Might he not have been chosen to
lead the people out of bondage to a land where there should be no more
fear.

"You're not angry with me?" he asked.  "I haven't been rude, have I?"

"Abominably rude," she answered, "you've defied my warnings, and treated
my embassy with contempt."  She turned to him and their eyes met.  "I
should have despised you, if you hadn't," she added.

There was a note of exultation in her voice; and, as if in answer,
something leapt into his eyes that seemed to claim her.  Perhaps it was
well that just then the bell rang for a division; and the moment passed.

He rose and held out his hand.  "We will fight him," he said.  "And you
can tell him this, if he asks, that I'm going straight for him.
Parliament may as well close down if a few men between them are to be
allowed to own the entire Press of the country, and stifle every voice
that does not shout their bidding.  We haven't dethroned kings to put up
a newspaper Boss.  He shall have all the fighting he wants."

They met more often from that day, for Joan was frankly using her two
columns in the _Sunday Post_ to propagate his aims.  Carleton, to her
surprise, made no objection.  Nor did he seek to learn the result of his
ultimatum.  It looked, they thought, as if he had assumed acceptance; and
was willing for Phillips to choose his own occasion.  Meanwhile replies
to her articles reached Joan in weekly increasing numbers.  There seemed
to be a wind arising, blowing towards Protection.  Farm labourers,
especially, appeared to be enthusiastic for its coming.  From their ill-
spelt, smeared epistles, one gathered that, after years of doubt and
hesitation, they had--however reluctantly--arrived at the conclusion that
without it there could be no hope for them.  Factory workers, miners,
engineers--more fluent, less apologetic--wrote as strong supporters of
Phillips's scheme; but saw clearly how upon Protection its success
depended.  Shopmen, clerks--only occasionally ungrammatical--felt sure
that Robert Phillips, the tried friend of the poor, would insist upon the
boon of Protection being no longer held back from the people.  Wives and
mothers claimed it as their children's birthright.  Similar views got
themselves at the same time, into the correspondence columns of
Carleton's other numerous papers.  Evidently Democracy had been throbbing
with a passion for Protection hitherto unknown, even to itself.

"He means it kindly," laughed Phillips.  "He is offering me an excuse to
surrender gracefully.  We must have a public meeting or two after
Christmas, and clear the ground."  They had got into the habit of
speaking in the plural.

Mrs. Phillips's conversion Joan found more difficult than she had
anticipated.  She had persuaded Phillips to take a small house and let
her furnish it upon the hire system.  Joan went with her to the widely
advertised "Emporium" in the City Road, meaning to advise her.  But, in
the end, she gave it up out of sheer pity.  Nor would her advice have
served much purpose, confronted by the "rich and varied choice" provided
for his patrons by Mr. Krebs, the "Furnisher for Connoisseurs."

"We've never had a home exactly," explained Mrs. Phillips, during their
journey in the tram.  "It's always been lodgings, up to now.  Nice
enough, some of them; but you know what I mean; everybody else's taste
but your own.  I've always fancied a little house with one's own things
in it.  You know, things that you can get fond of."

Oh, the things she was going to get fond of!  The things that her poor,
round foolish eyes gloated upon the moment that she saw them!  Joan tried
to enlist the shopman on her side, descending even to flirtation.
Unfortunately he was a young man with a high sense of duty, convinced
that his employer's interests lay in his support of Mrs. Phillips.  The
sight of the furniture that, between them, they selected for the dining-
room gave Joan a quite distinct internal pain.  They ascended to the
floor above, devoted to the exhibition of "_Recherche_ drawing-room
suites."  Mrs. Phillips's eye instinctively fastened with passionate
desire upon the most atrocious.  Joan grew vehement.  It was impossible.

"I always was a one for cheerful colours," explained Mrs. Phillips.

Even the shopman wavered.  Joan pressed her advantage; directed Mrs.
Phillips's attention to something a little less awful.  Mrs. Phillips
yielded.

"Of course you know best, dear," she admitted.  "Perhaps I am a bit too
fond of bright things."

The victory was won.  Mrs. Phillips had turned away.  The shopman was
altering the order.  Joan moved towards the door, and accidentally caught
sight of Mrs. Phillips's face.  The flabby mouth was trembling.  A tear
was running down the painted cheek.

Joan slipped her hand through the other's arm.

"I'm not so sure you're not right after all," she said, fixing a critical
eye upon the rival suites.  "It is a bit mousey, that other."

The order was once more corrected.  Joan had the consolation of
witnessing the childish delight that came again into the foolish face;
but felt angry with herself at her own weakness.

It was the woman's feebleness that irritated her.  If only she had shown
a spark of fight, Joan could have been firm.  Poor feckless creature,
what could have ever been her attraction for Phillips!

She followed, inwardly fuming, while Mrs. Phillips continued to pile
monstrosity upon monstrosity.  What would Phillips think?  And what would
Hilda's eyes say when they looked upon that _recherche_ drawing-room
suite?  Hilda, who would have had no sentimental compunctions!  The woman
would be sure to tell them both that she, Joan, had accompanied her and
helped in the choosing.  The whole ghastly house would be exhibited to
every visitor as the result of their joint taste.  She could hear Mr.
Airlie's purring voice congratulating her.

She ought to have insisted on their going to a decent shop.  The mere
advertisement ought to have forewarned her.  It was the posters that had
captured Mrs. Phillips: those dazzling apartments where bejewelled
society reposed upon the "high-class but inexpensive designs" of Mr.
Krebs.  Artists ought to have more self-respect than to sell their
talents for such purposes.

The contract was concluded in Mr. Krebs' private office: a very stout
gentleman with a very thin voice, whose dream had always been to one day
be of service to the renowned Mr. Robert Phillips.  He was clearly under
the impression that he had now accomplished it.  Even as Mrs. Phillips
took up the pen to sign, the wild idea occurred to Joan of snatching the
paper away from her, hustling her into a cab, and in some quiet street or
square making the woman see for herself that she was a useless fool; that
the glowing dreams and fancies she had cherished in her silly head for
fifteen years must all be given up; that she must stand aside, knowing
herself of no account.

It could be done.  She felt it.  If only one could summon up the needful
brutality.  If only one could stifle that still, small voice of Pity.

Mrs. Phillips signed amid splutterings and blots.  Joan added her
signature as witness.

She did effect an improvement in the poor lady's dress.  On Madge's
advice she took her to a voluble little woman in the Earl's Court Road
who was struck at once by Madame Phillips's remarkable resemblance to the
Baroness von Stein.  Had not Joan noticed it?  Whatever suited the
Baroness von Stein--allowed by common consent to be one of the
best-dressed women in London--was bound to show up Madame Phillips to
equal advantage.  By curious coincidence a costume for the Baroness had
been put in hand only the day before.  It was sent for and pinned upon
the delighted Madame Phillips.  Perfection!  As the Baroness herself
would always say: "My frock must be a framework for my personality.  It
must never obtrude."  The supremely well-dressed woman!  One never
notices what she has on: that is the test.  It seemed it was what Mrs.
Phillips had always felt herself.  Joan could have kissed the voluble,
emphatic little woman.

But the dyed hair and the paint put up a fight for themselves.

"I want you to do something very brave," said Joan.  She had invited
herself to tea with Mrs. Phillips, and they were alone in the small white-
panelled room that they were soon to say good-bye to.  The new house
would be ready at Christmas.  "It will be a little hard at first,"
continued Joan, "but afterwards you will be glad that you have done it.
It is a duty you owe to your position as the wife of a great leader of
the people."

The firelight showed to Joan a comically frightened face, with round,
staring eyes and an open mouth.

"What is it you want me to do?" she faltered

"I want you to be just yourself," said Joan; "a kind, good woman of the
people, who will win their respect, and set them an example."  She moved
across and seating herself on the arm of Mrs. Phillips's chair, touched
lightly with her hand the flaxen hair and the rouged cheek.  "I want you
to get rid of all this," she whispered.  "It isn't worthy of you.  Leave
it to the silly dolls and the bad women."

There was a long silence.  Joan felt the tears trickling between her
fingers.

"You haven't seen me," came at last in a thin, broken voice.

Joan bent down and kissed her.  "Let's try it," she whispered.

A little choking sound was the only answer.  But the woman rose and, Joan
following, they stole upstairs into the bedroom and Mrs. Phillips turned
the key.

It took a long time, and Joan, seated on the bed, remembered a night when
she had taken a trapped mouse (if only he had been a quiet mouse!) into
the bathroom and had waited while it drowned.  It was finished at last,
and Mrs Phillips stood revealed with her hair down, showing streaks of
dingy brown.

Joan tried to enthuse; but the words came haltingly.  She suggested to
Joan a candle that some wind had suddenly blown out.  The paint and
powder had been obvious, but at least it had given her the mask of youth.
She looked old and withered.  The life seemed to have gone out of her.

"You see, dear, I began when I was young," she explained; "and he has
always seen me the same.  I don't think I could live like this."

The painted doll that the child fancied! the paint washed off and the
golden hair all turned to drab?  Could one be sure of "getting used to
it," of "liking it better?"  And the poor bewildered doll itself!  How
could one expect to make of it a statue: "The Woman of the People."  One
could only bruise it.

It ended in Joan's promising to introduce her to discreet theatrical
friends who would tell her of cosmetics less injurious to the skin, and
advise her generally in the ancient and proper art of "making up."

It was not the end she had looked for.  Joan sighed as she closed her
door behind her.  What was the meaning of it?  On the one hand that
unimpeachable law, the greatest happiness of the greatest number; the
sacred cause of Democracy; the moral Uplift of the people; Sanity,
Wisdom, Truth, the higher Justice; all the forces on which she was
relying for the regeneration of the world--all arrayed in stern demand
that the flabby, useless Mrs. Phillips should be sacrificed for the
general good.  Only one voice had pleaded for foolish, helpless Mrs.
Phillips--and had conquered.  The still, small voice of Pity.




CHAPTER X


Arthur sprang himself upon her a little before Christmas.  He was full of
a great project.  It was that she and her father should spend Christmas
with his people at Birmingham.  Her father thought he would like to see
his brother; they had not often met of late, and Birmingham would be
nearer for her than Liverpool.

Joan had no intention of being lured into the Birmingham parlour.  She
thought she could see in it a scheme for her gradual entanglement.
Besides, she was highly displeased.  She had intended asking her father
to come to Brighton with her.  As a matter of fact, she had forgotten all
about Christmas; and the idea only came into her head while explaining to
Arthur how his impulsiveness had interfered with it.  Arthur,
crestfallen, suggested telegrams.  It would be quite easy to alter
everything; and of course her father would rather be with her, wherever
it was.  But it seemed it was too late.  She ought to have been
consulted.  A sudden sense of proprietorship in her father came to her
assistance and added pathos to her indignation.  Of course, now, she
would have to spend Christmas alone.  She was far too busy to think of
Birmingham.  She could have managed Brighton.  Argument founded on the
length of journey to Birmingham as compared with the journey to Brighton
she refused to be drawn into.  Her feelings had been too deeply wounded
to permit of descent into detail.

But the sinner, confessing his fault, is entitled to forgiveness, and,
having put him back into his proper place, she let him kiss her hand.  She
even went further and let him ask her out to dinner.  As the result of
her failure to reform Mrs. Phillips she was feeling dissatisfied with
herself.  It was an unpleasant sensation and somewhat new to her
experience.  An evening spent in Arthur's company might do her good.  The
experiment proved successful.  He really was quite a dear boy.  Eyeing
him thoughtfully through the smoke of her cigarette, it occurred to her
how like he was to Guido's painting of St. Sebastian; those soft, dreamy
eyes and that beautiful, almost feminine, face!  There always had been a
suspicion of the saint about him even as a boy: nothing one could lay
hold of: just that odd suggestion of a shadow intervening between him and
the world.

It seemed a favourable opportunity to inform him of that fixed
determination of hers: never--in all probability--to marry: but to devote
her life to her work.  She was feeling very kindly towards him; and was
able to soften her decision with touches of gentle regret.  He did not
appear in the least upset.  But 'thought' that her duty might demand,
later on, that she should change her mind: that was if fate should offer
her some noble marriage, giving her wider opportunity.

She was a little piqued at his unexpected attitude of aloofness.  What
did he mean by a "noble marriage"--to a Duke, or something of that sort?

He did not think the candidature need be confined to Dukes, though he had
no objection to a worthy Duke.  He meant any really great man who would
help her and whom she could help.

She promised, somewhat shortly, to consider the matter, whenever the
Duke, or other class of nobleman, should propose to her.  At present no
sign of him had appeared above the horizon.  Her own idea was that, if
she lived long enough, she would become a spinster.  Unless someone took
pity on her when she was old and decrepit and past her work.

There was a little humorous smile about his mouth.  But his eyes were
serious and pleading.

"When shall I know that you are old and decrepit?" he asked.

She was not quite sure.  She thought it would be when her hair was
grey--or rather white.  She had been informed by experts that her
peculiar shade of hair went white, not grey.

"I shall ask you to marry me when your hair is white," he said.  "May I?"

It did not suggest any overwhelming impatience.  "Yes," she answered.  "In
case you haven't married yourself, and forgotten all about me."

"I shall keep you to your promise," he said quite gravely.

She felt the time had come to speak seriously.  "I want you to marry,"
she said, "and be happy.  I shall be troubled if you don't."

He was looking at her with those shy, worshipping eyes of his that always
made her marvel at her own wonderfulness.

"It need not do that," he answered.  "It would be beautiful to be with
you always so that I might serve you.  But I am quite happy, loving you.
Let me see you now and then: touch you and hear your voice."

Behind her drawn-down lids, she offered up a little prayer that she might
always be worthy of his homage.  She didn't know it would make no
difference to him.

She walked with him to Euston and saw him into the train.  He had given
up his lodgings and was living with her father at The Pines.  They were
busy on a plan for securing the co-operation of the workmen, and she
promised to run down and hear all about it.  She would not change her
mind about Birmingham, but sent everyone her love.

She wished she had gone when it came to Christmas Day.  This feeling of
loneliness was growing upon her.  The Phillips had gone up north; and the
Greysons to some relations of theirs: swell country people in Hampshire.
Flossie was on a sea voyage with Sam and his mother, and even Madge had
been struck homesick.  It happened to be a Sunday, too, of all days in
the week, and London in a drizzling rain was just about the limit.  She
worked till late in the afternoon, but, sitting down to her solitary cup
of tea, she felt she wanted to howl.  From the basement came faint sounds
of laughter.  Her landlord and lady were entertaining guests.  If they
had not been, she would have found some excuse for running down and
talking to them, if only for a few minutes.

Suddenly the vision of old Chelsea Church rose up before her with its
little motherly old pew-opener.  She had so often been meaning to go and
see her again, but something had always interfered.  She hunted through
her drawers and found a comparatively sober-coloured shawl, and tucked it
under her cloak.  The service was just commencing when she reached the
church.  Mary Stopperton showed her into a seat and evidently remembered
her.  "I want to see you afterwards," she whispered; and Mary Stopperton
had smiled and nodded.  The service, with its need for being continually
upon the move, bored her; she was not in the mood for it.  And the
sermon, preached by a young curate who had not yet got over his Oxford
drawl, was uninteresting.  She had half hoped that the wheezy old
clergyman, who had preached about Calvary on the evening she had first
visited the church, would be there again.  She wondered what had become
of him, and if it were really a fact that she had known him when she was
a child, or only her fancy.  It was strange how vividly her memory of him
seemed to pervade the little church.  She had the feeling he was watching
her from the shadows.  She waited for Mary in the vestibule, and gave her
the shawl, making her swear on the big key of the church door that she
would wear it herself and not give it away.  The little old pew-opener's
pink and white face flushed with delight as she took it, and the thin,
work-worn hands fingered it admiringly.  "But I may lend it?" she
pleaded.

They turned up Church Street.  Joan confided to Mary what a rotten
Christmas she had had, all by herself, without a soul to speak to except
her landlady, who had brought her meals and had been in such haste to get
away.

"I don't know what made me think of you," she said.  "I'm so glad I did."
She gave the little old lady a hug.  Mary laughed.  "Where are you going
now, dearie?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't mind so much now," answered Joan.  "Now that I've seen a
friendly face, I shall go home and go to bed early."

They walked a little way in silence.  Mary slipped her hand into Joan's.
"You wouldn't care to come home and have a bit of supper with me, would
you, dearie?" she asked.

"Oh, may I?" answered Joan.

Mary's hand gave Joan's a little squeeze.  "You won't mind if anybody
drops in?" she said.  "They do sometimes of a Sunday evening."

"You don't mean a party?" asked Joan.

"No, dear," answered Mary.  "It's only one or two who have nowhere else
to go."

Joan laughed.  She thought she would be a fit candidate.

"You see, it makes company for me," explained Mary.

Mary lived in a tiny house behind a strip of garden.  It stood in a
narrow side street between two public-houses, and was covered with ivy.
It had two windows above and a window and a door below.  The upstairs
rooms belonged to the churchwardens and were used as a storehouse for old
parish registers, deemed of little value.  Mary Stopperton and her
bedridden husband lived in the two rooms below.  Mary unlocked the door,
and Joan passed in and waited.  Mary lit a candle that was standing on a
bracket and turned to lead the way.

"Shall I shut the door?" suggested Joan.

Mary blushed like a child that has been found out just as it was hoping
that it had not been noticed.

"It doesn't matter, dearie," she explained.  "They know, if they find it
open, that I'm in."

The little room looked very cosy when Mary had made up the fire and
lighted the lamp.  She seated Joan in the worn horsehair easy-chair; out
of which one had to be careful one did not slip on to the floor; and
spread her handsome shawl over the back of the dilapidated sofa.

"You won't mind my running away for a minute," she said.  "I shall only
be in the next room."

Through the thin partition, Joan heard a constant shrill, complaining
voice.  At times, it rose into an angry growl.  Mary looked in at the
door.

"I'm just running round to the doctor's," she whispered.  "His medicine
hasn't come.  I shan't be long."

Joan offered to go in and sit with the invalid.  But Mary feared the
exertion of talking might be too much for him.  "He gets so excited," she
explained.  She slipped out noiselessly.

It seemed, in spite of its open door, a very silent little house behind
its strip of garden.  Joan had the feeling that it was listening.

Suddenly she heard a light step in the passage, and the room door opened.
A girl entered.  She was wearing a large black hat and a black boa round
her neck.  Between them her face shone unnaturally white.  She carried a
small cloth bag.  She started, on seeing Joan, and seemed about to
retreat.

"Oh, please don't go," cried Joan.  "Mrs. Stopperton has just gone round
to the doctor's.  She won't be long.  I'm a friend of hers."

The girl took stock of her and, apparently reassured, closed the door
behind her.

"What's he like to-night?" she asked, with a jerk of her head in the
direction of the next room.  She placed her bag carefully upon the sofa,
and examined the new shawl as she did so.

"Well, I gather he's a little fretful," answered Joan with a smile.

"That's a bad sign," said the girl.  "Means he's feeling better."  She
seated herself on the sofa and fingered the shawl.  "Did you give it
her?" she asked.

"Yes," admitted Joan.  "I rather fancied her in it."

"She'll only pawn it," said the girl, "to buy him grapes and port wine."

"I felt a bit afraid of her," laughed Joan, "so I made her promise not to
part with it.  Is he really very ill, her husband?"

"Oh, yes, there's no make-believe this time," answered the girl.  "A bad
thing for her if he wasn't."

"Oh, it's only what's known all over the neighbourhood," continued the
girl.  "She's had a pretty rough time with him.  Twice I've found her
getting ready to go to sleep for the night by sitting on the bare floor
with her back against the wall.  Had sold every stick in the place and
gone off.  But she'd always some excuse for him.  It was sure to be half
her fault and the other half he couldn't help.  Now she's got her
'reward' according to her own account.  Heard he was dying in a
doss-house, and must fetch him home and nurse him back to life.  Seems
he's getting fonder of her every day.  Now that he can't do anything
else."

"It doesn't seem to depress her spirits," mused Joan.

"Oh, she!  She's all right," agreed the girl.  "Having the time of her
life: someone to look after for twenty-four hours a day that can't help
themselves."

She examined Joan awhile in silence.  "Are you on the stage?" she asked.

"No," answered Joan.  "But my mother was.  Are you?"

"Thought you looked a bit like it," said the girl.  "I'm in the chorus.
It's better than being in service or in a shop: that's all you can say
for it."

"But you'll get out of that," suggested Joan.  "You've got the actress
face."

The girl flushed with pleasure.  It was a striking face, with intelligent
eyes and a mobile, sensitive mouth.  "Oh, yes," she said, "I could act
all right.  I feel it.  But you don't get out of the chorus.  Except at a
price."

Joan looked at her.  "I thought that sort of thing was dying out," she
said.

The girl shrugged her shoulders.  "Not in my shop," she answered.
"Anyhow, it was the only chance I ever had.  Wish sometimes I'd taken it.
It was quite a good part."

"They must have felt sure you could act," said Joan.  "Next time it will
be a clean offer."

The girl shook her head.  "There's no next time," she said; "once you're
put down as one of the stand-offs.  Plenty of others to take your place."

"Oh, I don't blame them," she added.  "It isn't a thing to be dismissed
with a toss of your head.  I thought it all out.  Don't know now what
decided me.  Something inside me, I suppose."

Joan found herself poking the fire.  "Have you known Mary Stopperton
long?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," answered the girl.  "Ever since I've been on my own."

"Did you talk it over with her?" asked Joan.

"No," answered the girl.  "I may have just told her.  She isn't the sort
that gives advice."

"I'm glad you didn't do it," said Joan: "that you put up a fight for all
women."

The girl gave a short laugh.  "Afraid I wasn't thinking much about that,"
she said.

"No," said Joan.  "But perhaps that's the way the best fights are
fought--without thinking."

Mary peeped round the door.  She had been lucky enough to find the doctor
in.  She disappeared again, and they talked about themselves.  The girl
was a Miss Ensor.  She lived by herself in a room in Lawrence Street.

"I'm not good at getting on with people," she explained.