“So long as I live,” he answered. “What’s he like in himself?” he asked her. “You’ve been seeing something of him, haven’t you?”!

He laughed. “And this new journal of his?” he asked. “It’s got to be published in London, hasn’t it?” Mr. Sam Halliday she liked at once. He was a clean-shaven, square-jawed young man, with quiet eyes and a pleasant voice.

The waiter came to clear the table. They were almost the last customers left. The man’s tone and manner jarred upon Joan. She had not noticed it before. Joan ordered coffee and the girl, exchanging a joke with the waiter, added a liqueur. “I shall try to win you over, I warn you,” he said. “Politics will never reform the world. They appeal only to men’s passions and hatreds. They divide us. It is Art that is going to civilize mankind; broaden his sympathies. Art speaks to him the common language of his loves, his dreams, reveals to him the universal kinship.” “Don’t forget your promise,” he reminded her, when they parted. “I shall tell Mary she may write to you.”