“No,” the child answered. “Mama had a headache this morning, and I slipped out. You’re not keeping your promise.” “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?”!

“We old fellows feel a little sadly, at times, how unimportant we are,” he explained. “We are grateful when Youth throws us a smile.” Joan flushed. What did he mean by cross-examining her in this way? She was not at all used to impertinence from the opposite sex.

“She wasn’t born to be the châtelaine of Downing Street,” Joan admitted. “But it’s not an official position.” “Enough for the two of them?” demanded Mr. Singleton. “Because he will want them. Now think before you speak.” “His sufferings!” he interrupted. “Does suffering entitle a man to be regarded as divine? If so, so also am I a God. Look at me!” He stretched out his long, thin arms with their claw-like hands, thrusting forward his great savage head that the bony, wizened throat seemed hardly strong enough to bear. “Wealth, honour, happiness: I had them once. I had wife, children and a home. Now I creep an outcast, keeping to the shadows, and the children in the street throw stones at me. Thirty years I have starved that I might preach. They shut me in their prisons, they hound me into garrets. They jibe at me and mock me, but they cannot silence me. What of my life? Am I divine?”