“You’re not playing the game,” whispered Joan, shaking her head. “I only promised on condition that you would try to get well.” “Why is the Press always so eager for war?” mused Joan. “According to their own account, war doesn’t pay them.”!

She took the cigarette from her lips and her voice trembled a little. “Oh, may I?” answered Joan.

He did not answer for some time. She had begun to wonder if he had heard. Of course they would have to be careful. There must be no breath of gossip, no food for evil tongues. About that she was determined even more for his sake than her own. It would be fatal to his career. She was quite in agreement with the popular demand, supposed to be peculiarly English, that a public man’s life should be above reproach. Of what use these prophets without self-control; these social reformers who could not shake the ape out of themselves? Only the brave could give courage to others. Only through the pure could God’s light shine upon men. They gathered round the table. Mr. Baptiste was still pinned up in Mary’s bright shawl. It lent him a curious dignity. He might have been some ancient prophet stepped from the pages of the Talmud. Miss Ensor completed her supper with a cup of tea and some little cakes: “just to keep us all company,” as Mary had insisted.