“That’s like you women,” he answered with a smile. “You pretend to be superior; and then you copy us.” “But even that would not make him a Christian,” argued Joan.!

“I’m glad you didn’t do it,” said Joan: “that you put up a fight for all women.” “It would not do to tell the truth, or we should have our children growing up to hate war,” she concluded.

They talked for a time about domestic matters. Joan had established herself in furnished rooms in a quiet street of pleasant Georgian houses just behind the Abbey; a member of Parliament and his wife occupied the lower floors, the landlord, a retired butler, and his wife, an excellent cook, confining themselves to the basement and the attics. The remaining floor was tenanted by a shy young man—a poet, so the landlady thought, but was not sure. Anyhow he had long hair, lived with a pipe in his mouth, and burned his lamp long into the night. Joan had omitted to ask his name. She made a note to do so. She laughed. Her confidence had returned to her. “It doesn’t generally offend a woman,” she answered. “Ivanoff’s,” explained the Human Document. “He was our only child.”