“But I’ve won,” she said. “I’m dying further forward. I’ve helped advance the line.” They had reached the end of the street again. Joan held out her hand with a laugh.!

She stood beneath the withered trees, beside the shattered fountain. The sad-faced ghosts peeped out at her from the broken windows of the little silent houses. “Thanks,” said Mrs. Phillips. “You see, as the wife of a public man, I get so little time for study.”

“I shall ask you to marry me when your hair is white,” he said. “May I?” From a dismal side street there darted past her a small, shapeless figure in crumpled cap and apron: evidently a member of that lazy, over-indulged class, the domestic servant. Judging from the talk of the drawing-rooms, the correspondence in the papers, a singularly unsatisfactory body. They toiled not, lived in luxury and demanded grand pianos. Someone had proposed doing something for them. They themselves—it seemed that even they had a sort of conscience—were up in arms against it. Too much kindness even they themselves perceived was bad for them. They were holding a meeting that night to explain how contented they were. Six peeresses had consented to attend, and speak for them. The old fanatic’s eyes passed from face to face. There was almost the suggestion of a smile about the savage mouth.