“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?” “No,” said Joan. “But perhaps that’s the way the best fights are fought—without thinking.”!

He laughed. “And this new journal of his?” he asked. “It’s got to be published in London, hasn’t it?” “Because I don’t want the Devil to get hold of him,” answered Greyson.

“It’s wonderful how like you are to your mother,” he said, “I wish I were as young as I feel.” Phillips came down looking more cheerful. He had detected improvement in Mrs. Phillips. She was more hopeful in herself. They talked in low tones during the meal, as people do whose thoughts are elsewhere. It happened quite suddenly, Phillips explained. They had come down a few days after the rising of Parliament. There had been a spell of hot weather; but nothing remarkable. The first attack had occurred about three weeks ago. It was just after Hilda had gone back to school. He wasn’t sure whether he ought to send for Hilda, or not. Her mother didn’t want him to—not just yet. Of course, if she got worse, he would have to. What did Joan think?—did she think there was any real danger? The City of her Dreams! The mingled voices of the crowd shaped itself into a mocking laugh.