“But I like cooking, you know, dearie,” grumbled Mary. “There’s no interest in warming things up.” “Don’t give me ideas above my station,” laughed Joan. “I’m a journalist.”!

“Did you ever try, Dad?” she asked. He turned to her with his last flicker of passion.

“No,” the child answered. “Mama had a headache this morning, and I slipped out. You’re not keeping your promise.” “Remember me to him,” he said. “And tell him I thank him for all those years of love and gentleness. I don’t think he will be offended.” And as he talked and dreamed there grew up in her heart a fierce anger. What would her own future be? She would marry probably some man of her own class, settle down to the average woman’s “life”; be allowed, like a spoilt child, to still “take an interest” in public affairs: hold “drawing-rooms” attended by cranks and political nonentities: be President, perhaps, of the local Woman’s Liberal League. The alternative: to spend her days glued to a desk, penning exhortations to the people that Carleton and his like might or might not allow them to read; while youth and beauty slipped away from her, leaving her one of the ten thousand other lonely, faded women, forcing themselves unwelcome into men’s jobs. There came to her a sense of having been robbed of what was hers by primitive eternal law. Greyson had been right. She did love power—power to serve and shape the world. She would have earned it and used it well. She could have helped him, inspired him. They would have worked together: he the force and she the guidance. She would have supplied the things he lacked. It was to her he came for counsel, as it was. But for her he would never have taken the first step. What right had this poor brainless lump of painted flesh to share his wounds, his triumphs? What help could she give him when the time should come that he should need it?