“You see, dear, I began when I was young,” she explained; “and he has always seen me the same. I don’t think I could live like this.” “Do the women really crush their feet?” asked Joan.!

“You’re not offended?” he asked. “At my thinking you beautiful?” he added, in case she hadn’t understood. They lingered over the meal. Folk was a brilliant talker. Most of the men whose names were filling the newspapers had sat to him at one time or another. He made them seem quite human. Joan was surprised at the time.

“Oh, she’s changed a good deal,” answered Joan. “But I think she’ll get over it all right, if she’s careful.” There was a famous preacher. He lived the simple life in a small house in Battersea, and consecrated all his energies to the service of the poor. Almost, by his unselfish zeal, he had persuaded Joan of the usefulness of the church. Mr. Airlie frequently visited him. They interested one another. What struck Mr. Airlie most was the self-sacrificing devotion with which the reverend gentleman’s wife and family surrounded him. It was beautiful to see. The calls upon his moderate purse, necessitated by his wide-spread and much paragraphed activities, left but a narrow margin for domestic expenses: with the result that often the only fire in the house blazed brightly in the study where Mr. Airlie and the reverend gentleman sat talking: while mother and children warmed themselves with sense of duty in the cheerless kitchen. And often, as Mr. Airlie, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, had convinced himself, the only evening meal that resources would permit was the satisfying supper for one brought by the youngest daughter to her father where he sat alone in the small dining-room. “For God’s sake don’t take even that away from me,” he said. “Unless you want me to go to pieces altogether. A crust does just keep one alive. One can’t help thinking what a fine, strong chap one might be if one wasn’t always hungry.”