“There was an old Egyptian chap,” he said, “a governor of one of their provinces, thousands of years before the Pharaohs were ever heard of. They dug up his tomb a little while ago. It bore this inscription: ‘In my time no man went hungry.’ I’d rather have that carved upon my gravestone than the boastings of all the robbers and the butchers of history. Think what it must have meant in that land of drought and famine: only a narrow strip of river bank where a grain of corn would grow; and that only when old Nile was kind. If not, your nearest supplies five hundred miles away across the desert, your only means of transport the slow-moving camel. Your convoy must be guarded against attack, provided with provisions and water for a two months’ journey. Yet he never failed his people. Fat year and lean year: ‘In my time no man went hungry.’ And here, to-day, with our steamships and our railways, with the granaries of the world filled to overflowing, one third of our population lives on the border line of want. In India they die by the roadside. What’s the good of it all: your science and your art and your religion! How can you help men’s souls if their bodies are starving? A hungry man’s a hungry beast. “How far are you going?” demanded Flossie.!

“I expect that was it,” Joan confessed. “It interferes with our reason at times.” “He wants you,” said the child. “It’s your being there that helps him.”

“Ask Phillips to come and see me,” he said. “I can be of more help, if I know exactly his views.” He held her to him for what seemed a long while. There was strength in his arms, in spite of the bowed shoulders and white hair. “But they report his speeches. They are bound to,” explained Joan.