She was still interested in his work and keen to help him. It was going to be a stiff fight. He himself, in spite of Carleton’s opposition, had been returned with an increased majority; but the Party as a whole had suffered loss, especially in the counties. The struggle centred round the agricultural labourer. If he could be won over the Government would go ahead with Phillips’s scheme. Otherwise there was danger of its being shelved. The difficulty was the old problem of how to get at the men of the scattered villages, the lonely cottages. The only papers that they ever saw were those, chiefly of the Carleton group, that the farmers and the gentry took care should come within their reach; that were handed to them at the end of their day’s work as a kindly gift; given to the school children to take home with them; supplied in ample numbers to all the little inns and public-houses. In all these, Phillips was held up as their arch enemy, his proposal explained as a device to lower their wages, decrease their chances of employment, and rob them of the produce of their gardens and allotments. No arguments were used. A daily stream of abuse, misrepresentation and deliberate lies, set forth under flaming headlines, served their simple purpose. The one weekly paper that had got itself established among them, that their fathers had always taken, that dimly they had come to look upon as their one friend, Carleton had at last succeeded in purchasing. When that, too, pictured Phillips’s plan as a diabolical intent to take from them even the little that they had, and give it to the loafing socialist and the bloated foreigner, no room for doubt was left to them. “Do I pose?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.!

“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 laughed. “Don’t be surprised,” he said, “if I make a mistake occasionally and call you Lena.”

“No, dear,” answered Mary. “It’s only one or two who have nowhere else to go.” 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. She took from among the litter a faded photograph and handed it to Joan. “Odd,” she said. “I’ve just turned it out.”