level brows were becoming slightly raised.  It gave her a questioning
look that was new to her.  The eyes beneath were less confident.  They
seemed to be seeking something.

One evening, on her way home from a theatre, she met Flossie.  "Can't
stop now," said Flossie, who was hurrying.  "But I want to see you: most
particular.  Was going to look you up.  Will you be at home to-morrow
afternoon at tea-time?"

There was a distinct challenge in Flossie's eye as she asked the
question.  Joan felt herself flush, and thought a moment.

"Yes," she answered.  "Will you be coming alone?"

"That's the idea," answered Flossie; "a heart to heart talk between you
and me, and nobody else.  Half-past four.  Don't forget."

Joan walked on slowly.  She had the worried feeling with which, once or
twice, when a schoolgirl, she had crawled up the stairs to bed after the
head mistress had informed her that she would see her in her private room
at eleven o'clock the next morning, leaving her to guess what about.  It
occurred to her, in Trafalgar Square, that she had promised to take tea
with the Greysons the next afternoon, to meet some big pot from America.
She would have to get out of that.  She felt it wouldn't do to put off
Flossie.

She went to bed wakeful.  It was marvellously like being at school again.
What could Flossie want to see her about that was so important?  She
tried to pretend to herself that she didn't know.  After all, perhaps it
wasn't that.

But she knew that it was the instant Flossie put up her hands in order to
take off her hat.  Flossie always took off her hat when she meant to be
unpleasant.  It was her way of pulling up her sleeves.  They had their
tea first.  They seemed both agreed that that would be best.  And then
Flossie pushed back her chair and sat up.

She had just the head mistress expression.  Joan wasn't quite sure she
oughtn't to stand.  But, controlling the instinct, leant back in her
chair, and tried to look defiant without feeling it.

"How far are you going?" demanded Flossie.

Joan was not in a comprehending mood.

"If you're going the whole hog, that's something I can understand,"
continued Flossie.  "If not, you'd better pull up."

"What do you mean by the whole hog?" requested Joan, assuming dignity.

"Oh, don't come the kid," advised Flossie.  "If you don't mind being
talked about yourself, you might think of him.  If Carleton gets hold of
it, he's done for."

"'A little bird whispers to me that Robert Phillips was seen walking
across Richmond Park the other afternoon in company with Miss Joan
Allway, formerly one of our contributors.'  Is that going to end his
political career?" retorted Joan with fine sarcasm.

Flossie fixed a relentless eye upon her.  "He'll wait till the bird has
got a bit more than that to whisper to him," she suggested.

"There'll be nothing more," explained Joan.  "So long as my friendship is
of any assistance to Robert Phillips in his work, he's going to have it.
What use are we going to be in politics--what's all the fuss about, if
men and women mustn't work together for their common aims and help one
another?"

"Why can't you help him in his own house, instead of wandering all about
the country?" Flossie wanted to know.

"So I do," Joan defended herself.  "I'm in and out there till I'm sick of
the hideous place.  You haven't seen the inside.  And his wife knows all
about it, and is only too glad."

"Does she know about Richmond Park--and the other places?" asked Flossie.

"She wouldn't mind if she did," explained Joan.  "And you know what she's
like!  How can one think what one's saying with that silly, goggle-eyed
face in front of one always."

Flossie, since she had become engaged, had acquired quite a matronly
train of thought.  She spoke kindly, with a little grave shake of her
head.  "My dear," she said, "the wife is always in the way.  You'd feel
just the same whatever her face was like."

Joan grew angry.  "If you choose to suspect evil, of course you can," she
answered with hauteur.  "But you might have known me better.  I admire
the man and sympathize with him.  All the things I dream of are the
things he is working for.  I can do more good by helping and inspiring
him"--she wished she had not let slip that word "inspire."  She knew that
Flossie would fasten upon it--"than I can ever accomplish by myself.  And
I mean to do it."  She really did feel defiant, now.

"I know, dear," agreed Flossie, "you've both of you made up your minds it
shall always remain a beautiful union of twin spirits.  Unfortunately
you've both got bodies--rather attractive bodies."

"We'll keep it off that plane, if you don't mind," answered Joan with a
touch of severity.

"I'm willing enough," answered Flossie.  "But what about Old Mother
Nature?  She's going to be in this, you know."

"Take off your glasses, and look at it straight," she went on, without
giving Joan time to reply.  "What is it in us that 'inspires' men?  If
it's only advice and sympathy he's after, what's wrong with dear old Mrs.
Denton?  She's a good walker, except now and then, when she's got the
lumbago.  Why doesn't he get her to 'inspire' him?"

"It isn't only that," explained Joan.  "I give him courage.  I always did
have more of that than is any use to a woman.  He wants to be worthy of
my belief in him.  What is the harm if he does admire me--if a smile from
me or a touch of the hand can urge him to fresh effort?  Suppose he does
love me--"

Flossie interrupted.  "How about being quite frank?" she suggested.
"Suppose we do love one another.  How about putting it that way?"

"And suppose we do?" agreed Joan, her courage rising.  "Why should we
shun one another, as if we were both of us incapable of decency or self-
control?  Why must love be always assumed to make us weak and
contemptible, as if it were some subtle poison?  Why shouldn't it
strengthen and ennoble us?"

"Why did the apple fall?" answered Flossie.  "Why, when it escapes from
its bonds, doesn't it soar upward?  If it wasn't for the irritating law
of gravity, we could skip about on the brink of precipices without
danger.  Things being what they are, sensible people keep as far away
from the edge as possible."

"I'm sorry," she continued; "awfully sorry, old girl.  It's a bit of
rotten bad luck for both of you.  You were just made for one another.  And
Fate, knowing what was coming, bustles round and gets hold of poor, silly
Mrs. Phillips so as to be able to say 'Yah.'"

"Unless it all comes right in the end," she added musingly; "and the poor
old soul pegs out.  I wouldn't give much for her liver."

"That's not bringing me up well," suggested Joan: "putting those ideas
into my head."

"Oh, well, one can't help one's thoughts," explained Flossie.  "It would
be a blessing all round."

They had risen.  Joan folded her hands.  "Thank you for your scolding,
ma'am," she said.  "Shall I write out a hundred lines of Greek?  Or do
you think it will be sufficient if I promise never to do it again?"

"You mean it?" said Flossie.  "Of course you will go on seeing
him--visiting them, and all that.  But you won't go gadding about, so
that people can talk?"

"Only through the bars, in future," she promised.  "With the gaoler
between us."  She put her arms round Flossie and bent her head, so that
her face was hidden.

Flossie still seemed troubled.  She held on to Joan.

"You are sure of yourself?" she asked.  "We're only the female of the
species.  We get hungry and thirsty, too.  You know that, kiddy, don't
you?"

Joan laughed without raising her face.  "Yes, ma'am, I know that," she
answered.  "I'll be good."

She sat in the dusk after Flossie had gone; and the laboured breathing of
the tired city came to her through the open window.  She had rather
fancied that martyr's crown.  It had not looked so very heavy, the thorns
not so very alarming--as seen through the window.  She would wear it
bravely.  It would rather become her.

Facing the mirror of the days to come, she tried it on.  It was going to
hurt.  There was no doubt of that.  She saw the fatuous, approving face
of the eternal Mrs. Phillips, thrust ever between them, against the
background of that hideous furniture, of those bilious wall papers--the
loneliness that would ever walk with her, sit down beside her in the
crowded restaurant, steal up the staircase with her, creep step by step
with her from room to room--the ever unsatisfied yearning for a tender
word, a kindly touch.  Yes, it was going to hurt.

Poor Robert!  It would be hard on him, too.  She could not help feeling
consolation in the thought that he also would be wearing that invisible
crown.

She must write to him.  The sooner it was done, the better.  Half a dozen
contradictory moods passed over her during the composing of that letter;
but to her they seemed but the unfolding of a single thought.  On one
page it might have been his mother writing to him; an experienced,
sagacious lady; quite aware, in spite of her affection for him, of his
faults and weaknesses; solicitous that he should avoid the dangers of an
embarrassing entanglement; his happiness being the only consideration of
importance.  On others it might have been a queen laying her immutable
commands upon some loyal subject, sworn to her service.  Part of it might
have been written by a laughing philosopher who had learnt the folly of
taking life too seriously, knowing that all things pass: that the tears
of to-day will be remembered with a smile.  And a part of it was the
unconsidered language of a loving woman.  And those were the pages that
he kissed.

His letter in answer was much shorter.  Of course he would obey her
wishes.  He had been selfish, thinking only of himself.  As for his
political career, he did not see how that was going to suffer by his
being occasionally seen in company with one of the most brilliantly
intellectual women in London, known to share his views.  And he didn't
care if it did.  But inasmuch as she valued it, all things should be
sacrificed to it.  It was hers to do what she would with.  It was the
only thing he had to offer her.

Their meetings became confined, as before, to the little house in North
Street.  But it really seemed as if the gods, appeased by their
submission, had decided to be kind.  Hilda was home for the holidays; and
her piercing eyes took in the situation at a flash.  She appeared to have
returned with a new-born and exacting affection for her mother, that
astonished almost as much as it delighted the poor lady.  Feeling sudden
desire for a walk or a bus ride, or to be taken to an entertainment, no
one was of any use to Hilda but her mother.  Daddy had his silly politics
to think and talk about.  He must worry them out alone; or with the
assistance of Miss Allway.  That was what she was there for.  Mrs.
Phillips, torn between her sense of duty and fear of losing this new
happiness, would yield to the child's coaxing.  Often they would be left
alone to discuss the nation's needs uninterrupted.  Conscientiously they
would apply themselves to the task.  Always to find that, sooner or
later, they were looking at one another, in silence.

One day Phillips burst into a curious laugh.  They had been discussing
the problem of the smallholder.  Joan had put a question to him, and with
a slight start he had asked her to repeat it.  But it seemed she had
forgotten it.

"I had to see our solicitor one morning," he explained, "when I was
secretary to a miners' union up north.  A point had arisen concerning the
legality of certain payments.  It was a matter of vast importance to us;
but he didn't seem to be taking any interest, and suddenly he jumped up.
'I'm sorry, Phillips,' he said, 'but I've got a big trouble of my own on
at home--I guess you know what--and I don't seem to care a damn about
yours.  You'd better see Delauny, if you're in a hurry.'  And I did."

He turned and leant over his desk.  "I guess they'll have to find another
leader if they're in a hurry," he added.  "I don't seem able to think
about turnips and cows."

"Don't make me feel I've interfered with your work only to spoil it,"
said Joan.

"I guess I'm spoiling yours, too," he answered.  "I'm not worth it.  I
might have done something to win you and keep you.  I'm not going to do
much without you."

"You mean my friendship is going to be of no use to you?" asked Joan.

He raised his eyes and fixed them on her with a pleading, dog-like look.

"For God's sake don't take even that away from me," he said.  "Unless you
want me to go to pieces altogether.  A crust does just keep one alive.
One can't help thinking what a fine, strong chap one might be if one
wasn't always hungry."

She felt so sorry for him.  He looked such a boy, with the angry tears in
his clear blue eyes, and that little childish quivering of the kind,
strong, sulky mouth.

She rose and took his head between her hands and turned his face towards
her.  She had meant to scold him, but changed her mind and laid his head
against her breast and held it there.

He clung to her, as a troubled child might, with his arms clasped round
her, and his head against her breast.  And a mist rose up before her, and
strange, commanding voices seemed calling to her.

He could not see her face.  She watched it herself with dim half
consciousness as it changed before her in the tawdry mirror above the
mantelpiece, half longing that he might look up and see it, half
terrified lest he should.

With an effort that seemed to turn her into stone, she regained command
over herself.

"I must go now," she said in a harsh voice, and he released her.

"I'm afraid I'm an awful nuisance to you," he said.  "I get these moods
at times.  You're not angry with me?"

"No," she answered with a smile.  "But it will hurt me if you fail.
Remember that."

She turned down the Embankment after leaving the house.  She always found
the river strong and restful.  So it was not only bad women that needed
to be afraid of themselves--even to the most high-class young woman, with
letters after her name, and altruistic interests: even to her, also, the
longing for the lover's clasp.  Flossie had been right.  Mother Nature
was not to be flouted of her children--not even of her new daughters; to
them, likewise, the family trait.

She would have run away if she could, leaving him to guess at her real
reason--if he were smart enough.  But that would have meant excuses and
explanations all round.  She was writing a daily column of notes for
Greyson now, in addition to the weekly letter from Clorinda; and Mrs.
Denton, having compromised with her first dreams, was delegating to Joan
more and more of her work.  She wrote to Mrs. Phillips that she was
feeling unwell and would be unable to lunch with them on the Sunday, as
had been arranged.  Mrs. Phillips, much disappointed, suggested
Wednesday; but it seemed on Wednesday she was no better.  And so it
drifted on for about a fortnight, without her finding the courage to come
to any decision; and then one morning, turning the corner into Abingdon
Street, she felt a slight pull at her sleeve; and Hilda was beside her.
The child had shown an uncanny intuition in not knocking at the door.
Joan had been fearing that, and would have sent down word that she was
out.  But it had to be faced.

"Are you never coming again?" asked the child.

"Of course," answered Joan, "when I'm better.  I'm not very well just
now.  It's the weather, I suppose."

The child turned her head as they walked and looked at her.  Joan felt
herself smarting under that look, but persisted.

"I'm very much run down," she said.  "I may have to go away."

"You promised to help him," said the child.

"I can't if I'm ill," retorted Joan.  "Besides, I am helping him.  There
are other ways of helping people than by wasting their time talking to
them."

"He wants you," said the child.  "It's your being there that helps him."

Joan stopped and turned.  "Did he send you?" she asked.

"No," the child answered.  "Mama had a headache this morning, and I
slipped out.  You're not keeping your promise."

Palace Yard, save for a statuesque policeman, was empty.

"How do you know that my being with him helps him?" asked Joan.

"You know things when you love anybody," explained the child.  "You feel
them.  You will come again, soon?"

Joan did not answer.

"You're frightened," the child continued in a passionate, low voice.  "You
think that people will talk about you and look down upon you.  You
oughtn't to think about yourself.  You ought to think only about him and
his work.  Nothing else matters."

"I am thinking about him and his work," Joan answered.  Her hand sought
Hilda's and held it.  "There are things you don't understand.  Men and
women can't help each other in the way you think.  They may try to, and
mean no harm in the beginning, but the harm comes, and then not only the
woman but the man also suffers, and his work is spoilt and his life
ruined."

The small, hot hand clasped Joan's convulsively.

"But he won't be able to do his work if you keep away and never come back
to him," she persisted.  "Oh, I know it.  It all depends upon you.  He
wants you."

"And I want him, if that's any consolation to you," Joan answered with a
short laugh.  It wasn't much of a confession.  The child was cute enough
to have found that out for herself.  "Only you see I can't have him.  And
there's an end of it."

They had reached the Abbey.  Joan turned and they retraced their steps
slowly.

"I shall be going away soon, for a little while," she said.  The talk had
helped her to decision.  "When I come back I will come and see you all.
And you must all come and see me, now and then.  I expect I shall have a
flat of my own.  My father may be coming to live with me.  Good-bye.  Do
all you can to help him."

She stooped and kissed the child, straining her to her almost fiercely.
But the child's lips were cold.  She did not look back.

Miss Greyson was sympathetic towards her desire for a longish holiday and
wonderfully helpful; and Mrs. Denton also approved, and, to Joan's
surprise, kissed her; Mrs. Denton was not given to kissing.  She wired to
her father, and got his reply the same evening.  He would be at her rooms
on the day she had fixed with his travelling bag, and at her Ladyship's
orders.  "With love and many thanks," he had added.  She waited till the
day before starting to run round and say good-bye to the Phillipses.  She
felt it would be unwise to try and get out of doing that.  Both Phillips
and Hilda, she was thankful, were out; and she and Mrs. Phillips had tea
alone together.  The talk was difficult, so far as Joan was concerned.  If
the woman had been possessed of ordinary intuition, she might have
arrived at the truth.  Joan almost wished she would.  It would make her
own future task the easier.  But Mrs. Phillips, it was clear, was going
to be no help to her.

For her father's sake, she made pretence of eagerness, but as the sea
widened between her and the harbour lights it seemed as if a part of
herself were being torn away from her.

They travelled leisurely through Holland and the Rhine land, and that
helped a little: the new scenes and interests; and in Switzerland they
discovered a delightful little village in an upland valley with just one
small hotel, and decided to stay there for a while, so as to give
themselves time to get their letters.  They took long walks and climbs,
returning tired and hungry, looking forward to their dinner and the
evening talk with the few other guests on the veranda.  The days passed
restfully in that hidden valley.  The great white mountains closed her
in.  They seemed so strong and clean.

It was on the morning they were leaving that a telegram was put into her
hands.  Mrs. Phillips was ill at lodgings in Folkestone.  She hoped that
Joan, on her way back, would come to see her.

She showed the telegram to her father.  "Do you mind, Dad, if we go
straight back?" she asked.

"No, dear," he answered, "if you wish it."

"I would like to go back," she said.




CHAPTER XIII


Mrs. Phillips was sitting up in an easy chair near the heavily-curtained
windows when Joan arrived.  It was a pleasant little house in the old
part of the town, and looked out upon the harbour.  She was startlingly
thin by comparison with what she had been; but her face was still
painted.  Phillips would run down by the afternoon train whenever he
could get away.  She never knew when he was coming, so she explained; and
she could not bear the idea of his finding her "old and ugly."  She had
fought against his wish that she should go into a nursing home; and Joan,
who in the course of her work upon the _Nursing Times_ had acquired some
knowledge of them as a whole, was inclined to agree with her.  She was
quite comfortable where she was.  The landlady, according to her account,
was a dear.  She had sent the nurse out for a walk on getting Joan's
wire, so that they could have a cosy chat.  She didn't really want much
attendance.  It was her heart.  It got feeble now and then, and she had
to keep very still; that was all.  Joan told how her father had suffered
for years from much the same complaint.  So long as you were careful
there was no danger.  She must take things easily and not excite herself.

Mrs. Phillips acquiesced.  "It's turning me into a lazy-bones," she said
with a smile.  "I can sit here by the hour, just watching the bustle.  I
was always one for a bit of life."

The landlady entered with Joan's tea.  Joan took an instinctive dislike
to her.  She was a large, flashy woman, wearing a quantity of cheap
jewellery.  Her familiarity had about it something almost threatening.
Joan waited till she heard the woman's heavy tread descending the stairs,
before she expressed her opinion.

"I think she only means to be cheerful," explained Mrs. Phillips.  "She's
quite a good sort, when you know her."  The subject seemed in some way to
trouble her, and Joan dropped it.

They watched the loading of a steamer while Joan drank her tea.

"He will come this afternoon, I fancy," said Mrs. Phillips.  "I seem to
feel it.  He will be able to see you home."

Joan started.  She had been thinking about Phillips, wondering what she
should say to him when they met.

"What does he think," she asked, "about your illness?"

"Oh, it worries him, of course, poor dear," Mrs. Phillips answered.  "You
see, I've always been such a go-ahead, as a rule.  But I think he's
getting more hopeful.  As I tell him, I'll be all right by the autumn.  It
was that spell of hot weather that knocked me over."

Joan was still looking out of the window.  She didn't quite know what to
say.  The woman's altered appearance had shocked her.  Suddenly she felt
a touch upon her hand.

"You'll look after him if anything does happen, won't you?"  The woman's
eyes were pleading with her.  They seemed to have grown larger.  "You
know what I mean, dear, don't you?" she continued.  "It will be such a
comfort to me to know that it's all right."

In answer the tears sprang to Joan's eyes.  She knelt down and put her
arms about the woman.

"Don't be so silly," she cried.  "There's nothing going to happen.  You're
going to get fat and well again; and live to see him Prime Minister."

"I am getting thin, ain't I?" she said.  "I always wanted to be thin."
They both laughed.

"But I shan't see him that, even if I do live," she went on.  "He'll
never be that, without you.  And I'd be so proud to think that he would.
I shouldn't mind going then," she added.

Joan did not answer.  There seemed no words that would come.

"You will promise, won't you?" she persisted, in a whisper.  "It's only
'in case'--just that I needn't worry myself."

Joan looked up.  There was something in the eyes looking down upon her
that seemed to be compelling her.

"If you'll promise to try and get better," she answered.

Mrs. Phillips stooped and kissed her.  "Of course, dear," she said.
"Perhaps I shall, now that my mind is easier."

Phillips came, as Mrs. Phillips had predicted.  He was surprised at
seeing Joan.  He had not thought she could get back so soon.  He brought
an evening paper with him.  It contained a paragraph to the effect that
Mrs. Phillips, wife of the Rt. Hon. Robert Phillips, M.P., was
progressing favourably and hoped soon to be sufficiently recovered to
return to her London residence.  It was the first time she had had a
paragraph all to herself, headed with her name.  She flushed with
pleasure; and Joan noticed that, after reading it again, she folded the
paper up small and slipped it into her pocket.  The nurse came in from
her walk a little later and took Joan downstairs with her.

"She ought not to talk to more than one person at a time," the nurse
explained, with a shake of the head.  She was a quiet, business-like
woman.  She would not express a definite opinion.

"It's her mental state that is the trouble," was all that she would say.
"She ought to be getting better.  But she doesn't."

"You're not a Christian Scientist, by any chance?" she asked Joan
suddenly.

"No," answered Joan.  "Surely you're not one?"

"I don't know," answered the woman.  "I believe that would do her more
good than anything else.  If she would listen to it.  She seems to have
lost all will-power."

The nurse left her; and the landlady came in to lay the table.  She
understood that Joan would be dining with Mr. Phillips.  There was no
train till the eight-forty.  She kept looking at Joan as she moved about
the room.  Joan was afraid she would begin to talk, but she must have
felt Joan's antagonism for she remained silent.  Once their eyes met, and
the woman leered at her.

Phillips came down looking more cheerful.  He had detected improvement in
Mrs. Phillips.  She was more hopeful in herself.  They talked in low
tones during the meal, as people do whose thoughts are elsewhere.  It
happened quite suddenly, Phillips explained.  They had come down a few
days after the rising of Parliament.  There had been a spell of hot
weather; but nothing remarkable.  The first attack had occurred about
three weeks ago.  It was just after Hilda had gone back to school.  He
wasn't sure whether he ought to send for Hilda, or not.  Her mother
didn't want him to--not just yet.  Of course, if she got worse, he would
have to.  What did Joan think?--did she think there was any real danger?

Joan could not say.  So much depended upon the general state of health.
There was the case of her own father.  Of course she would always be
subject to attacks.  But this one would have warned her to be careful.

Phillips thought that living out of town might be better for her, in the
future--somewhere in Surrey, where he could easily get up and down.  He
could sleep himself at the club on nights when he had to be late.

They talked without looking at one another.  They did not speak about
themselves.

Mrs. Phillips was in bed when Joan went up to say good-bye.  "You'll come
again soon?" she asked, and Joan promised.  "You've made me so happy,"
she whispered.  The nurse was in the room.

They discussed politics in the train.  Phillips had found more support
for his crusade against Carleton than he had expected.  He was going to
open the attack at once, thus forestalling Carleton's opposition to his
land scheme.

"It isn't going to be the _Daily This_ and the _Daily That_ and the
_Weekly the Other_ all combined to down me.  I'm going to tell the people
that it's Carleton and only Carleton--Carleton here, Carleton there,
Carleton everywhere, against them.  I'm going to drag him out into the
open and make him put up his own fists."

Joan undertook to sound Greyson.  She was sure Greyson would support him,
in his balanced, gentlemanly way, that could nevertheless be quite
deadly.

They grew less and less afraid of looking at one another as they felt
that darkened room further and further behind them.

They parted at Charing Cross.  Joan would write.  They agreed it would be
better to choose separate days for their visits to Folkestone.

She ran against Madge in the morning, and invited herself to tea.  Her
father had returned to Liverpool, and her own rooms, for some reason,
depressed her.  Flossie was there with young Halliday.  They were both
off the next morning to his people's place in Devonshire, from where they
were going to get married, and had come to say good-bye.  Flossie put Sam
in the passage and drew-to the door.

"Have you seen her?" she asked.  "How is she?"

"Oh, she's changed a good deal," answered Joan.  "But I think she'll get
over it all right, if she's careful."

"I shall hope for the best," answered Flossie.  "Poor old soul, she's had
a good time.  Don't send me a present; and then I needn't send you
one--when your time comes.  It's a silly custom.  Besides, I've nowhere
to put it.  Shall be in a ship for the next six months.  Will let you
know when we're back."

She gave Joan a hug and a kiss, and was gone.  Joan joined Madge in the
kitchen, where she was toasting buns.

"I suppose she's satisfied herself that he's brainy," she laughed.

"Oh, brains aren't everything," answered Madge.  "Some of the worst
rotters the world has ever been cursed with have been brainy enough--men
and women.  We make too much fuss about brains; just as once upon a time
we did about mere brute strength, thinking that was all that was needed
to make a man great.  Brain is only muscle translated into civilization.
That's not going to save us."

"You've been thinking," Joan accused her.  "What's put all that into your
head?"

Madge laughed.  "Mixing with so many brainy people, perhaps," she
suggested; "and wondering what's become of their souls."

"Be good, sweet child.  And let who can be clever," Joan quoted.  "Would
that be your text?"

Madge finished buttering her buns.  "Kant, wasn't it," she answered, "who
marvelled chiefly at two things: the starry firmament above him and the
moral law within him.  And they're one and the same, if he'd only thought
it out.  It's rather big to be good."

They carried their tea into the sitting-room.

"Do you really think she'll get over it?" asked Madge.  "Or is it one of
those things one has to say?"

"I think she could," answered Joan, "if she would pull herself together.
It's her lack of will-power that's the trouble."

Madge did not reply immediately.  She was watching the rooks settling
down for the night in the elm trees just beyond the window.  There seemed
to be much need of coming and going, of much cawing.

"I met her pretty often during those months that Helen Lavery was running
her round," she said at length.  "It always seemed to me to have a touch
of the heroic, that absurd effort she was making to 'qualify' herself, so
that she might be of use to him.  I can see her doing something quite
big, if she thought it would help him."

The cawing of the rooks grew fainter.  One by one they folded their