He laughed. “Don’t be surprised,” he said, “if I make a mistake occasionally and call you Lena.” “I’m glad you didn’t do it,” said Joan: “that you put up a fight for all women.”!

They sat on the stone step of the fountain, where they were sheltered from the wind; and she buttoned his long coat about him. “Yes, dear, and of course that can happen too,” agreed the little old lady.

Joan remembered Folk, the artist she had met at Flossie’s party, who had promised to walk with her on the terrace at St. Germain, and tell her more about her mother. She looked up his address on her return home, and wrote to him, giving him the name of the hotel in the Rue de Grenelle where Mrs. Denton had arranged that she should stay. She found a note from him awaiting her when she arrived there. He thought she would like to be quiet after her journey. He would call round in the morning. He had presumed on the privilege of age to send her some lilies. They had been her mother’s favourite flower. “Monsieur Folk, the great artist,” had brought them himself, and placed them in her dressing-room, so Madame informed her. These physical activities into which women were throwing themselves! Where one used one’s body as well as one’s brain—hastened to appointments; gathered round noisy tables; met fellow human beings, argued with them, walked with them, laughing and talking; forced one’s way through crowds; cheered, shouted; stood up on platforms before a sea of faces; roused applause, filling and emptying one’s lungs; met interruptions with swift flash of wit or anger, faced opposition, danger—felt one’s blood surging through one’s veins, felt one’s nerves quivering with excitement; felt the delirious thrill of passion; felt the mad joy of the loosened animal. “She wouldn’t mind if she did,” explained Joan. “And you know what she’s like! How can one think what one’s saying with that silly, goggle-eyed face in front of one always.”