“But you’re surely not suggesting any other kind of Press, at this period of the world’s history?” exclaimed Joan. “Didn’t you love him?” asked the girl, staring. “Wouldn’t you have helped him?”!

He seemed to be more interested in looking at her when he thought she was not noticing. That little faint vague fear came back to her and stayed with her, but brought no quickening of her pulse. It was a fear of something ugly. She had the feeling they were both acting, that everything depended upon their not forgetting their parts. In handing things to one another, they were both of them so careful that their hands should not meet and touch. “No,” said Joan. “But perhaps that’s the way the best fights are fought—without thinking.”

Likely enough that there were good-for-nothing, cockered menials imposing upon incompetent mistresses. There were pampered slaves in Rome. But these others. These poor little helpless sluts. There were thousands such in every city, over-worked and under-fed, living lonely, pleasureless lives. They must be taught to speak in other voices than the dulcet tones of peeresses. By the light of the guttering candles, from their chill attics, they should write to her their ill-spelt visions. Joan shot a glance from over her cup. The poor puzzled face was staring into the fire. Joan could almost hear him saying it. The woman did not answer in words. The big tears were rolling down her cheeks. There was no paint to mingle with and mar them. She drew the little metal box from under the pillow and gave it into Joan’s hands.