“Don’t give me ideas above my station,” laughed Joan. “I’m a journalist.” “But you’ll get out of that,” suggested Joan. “You’ve got the actress face.”!

“He might win through,” mused Greyson. “He’s the man to do it, if anybody could. But the odds will be against him.” Into the picture, slightly to the background, she unconsciously placed Greyson. His tall, thin figure with its air of distinction seemed to fit in; Greyson would be very restful. She could see his handsome, ascetic face flush with pleasure as, after the guests were gone, she would lean over the back of his chair and caress for a moment his dark, soft hair tinged here and there with grey. He would always adore her, in that distant, undemonstrative way of his that would never be tiresome or exacting. They would have children. But not too many. That would make the house noisy and distract her from her work. They would be beautiful and clever; unless all the laws of heredity were to be set aside for her especial injury. She would train them, shape them to be the heirs of her labour, bearing her message to the generations that should follow.

Joan did not speak for a time. She could see him grave—a little pompous, in his Sunday black, his footsteps creaking down the stone-flagged aisle, the silver-edged collecting bag held stiffly in his hand. He was silent for a while, with a quiet look on his face. “It always seems to me Christ’s birthday,” she said, “whenever a child is born.”