“Oh, well, one can’t help one’s thoughts,” explained Flossie. “It would be a blessing all round.” The blood had mounted to her face. She drew back into the shadow, beyond the tiny sphere of light made by the little lamp.!

He turned to her with his last flicker of passion. Flossie ’phoned her from Paddington Station, the second day, and by luck she happened to be in. Flossie had just come up from Devonshire. Sam had “got through,” and she was on her way to meet him at Hull. She had heard of Joan’s arrival in London from one of Carleton’s illustrated dailies. She brought the paper with her. They had used the old photograph that once had adorned each week the Sunday Post. Joan hardly recognized herself in the serene, self-confident young woman who seemed to be looking down upon a world at her feet. The world was strong and cruel, she had discovered; and Joans but small and weak. One had to pretend that one was not afraid of it.

“Yah, socialist,” commented Madge, who was busy with the tea things. “It is daring,” she admitted. “I must be prepared for opposition. But it had to be stated.” “Yes,” she answered. “If he comes back.” There was a little catch in her voice.