“But you’re surely not suggesting any other kind of Press, at this period of the world’s history?” exclaimed Joan. Joan promised, and the child went out. She looked pretty when she smiled. She closed the door behind her noiselessly.!

“She won’t be expecting you, just yet,” she explained. “We might have a little walk.” “Yes,” she answered. “And I’m glad that I did it,” she added, defiantly.

“It would help, undoubtedly,” the girl answered. “I don’t see any other way of getting hold of them.” Carleton himself never interrupted them. Indeed, one might have thought he was not listening, so engrossed he appeared to be in the pile of letters and telegrams that lay waiting for him on his desk. When they had finished he would ask them questions, still with his attention fixed apparently upon the paper in his hand. Then, looking up for the first time, he would run off curt instructions, much in the tone of a Commander-in-Chief giving orders for an immediate assault; and, finishing abruptly, return to his correspondence. When the last, as it transpired, had closed the door behind him, he swung his chair round and faced her. “He does,” answered Joan. “I hear His voice. There are things I’ve got to do. Wrongs that I must fight against. Rights that I must never dare to rest till they are won.” Her lips were parted. Her breasts heaving. “He does call to us. He has girded His sword upon me.”