“Do you think you will go on doing it?” he asked, with a laugh. “What is it you want me to do?” she faltered!

Joan shot a glance from over her cup. The poor puzzled face was staring into the fire. Joan could almost hear him saying it. “Tell me,” she said. “What is God?”

Joan grew angry. “If you choose to suspect evil, of course you can,” she answered with hauteur. “But you might have known me better. I admire the man and sympathize with him. All the things I dream of are the things he is working for. I can do more good by helping and inspiring him”—she wished she had not let slip that word “inspire.” She knew that Flossie would fasten upon it—“than I can ever accomplish by myself. And I mean to do it.” She really did feel defiant, now. Phillips must have seen her getting off the bus, for he came forward at once from the other side of the gate, his face radiant with boyish delight. A young man and woman, entering the park at the same time, looked at them and smiled sympathetically. “No,” he answered. “Not that sort of sleep.” She could not see his face. But she guessed his meaning.