A pile of correspondence was awaiting her and, standing¹ by the desk, she began to open and read it.  Suddenly she paused, conscious that someone had entered the room and, turning, she saw Hilda.  She must have left the door ajar, for she had heard no sound.  The child closed the door noiselessly and came across, holding out a letter.  
“Papa told me to give you this the moment you came in,” she said.  Joan had not yet taken off her things.  The child must have been keeping a close watch.  Save for the signature it contained but one line: “I have accepted.”
 
Joan replaced the letter in its envelope, and laid it down upon the desk.  Unconsciously a smile played about her lips.
 
The child was watching her.  “I’m glad you persuaded him,” she said.
 
Joan felt a flush mount to her face.  She had forgotten Hilda for the instant.
 
She forced a laugh.  “Oh, I only persuaded him to do what he had made up his mind to do,” she explained.  “It was all settled.”
 
“No, it wasn’t,” answered the child.  “Most of them were against it.  And then there was Mama,” she added in a lower tone.
 
“What do you mean,” asked Joan.  “Didn’t she wish it?”
 
The child raised her eyes.  There was a dull anger in them.  “Oh, what’s the good of pretending,” she said.  “He’s so great.  He could be the Prime Minister of England if he chose.  But then he would have to visit kings and nobles, and receive them at his house, and Mama—”  She broke off with a passionate² gesture of the small thin hands.
 
Joan was puzzled what to say.  She knew exactly what she ought to say: what she would have said to any ordinary child.  But to say it to this uncannily knowing little creature did not promise much good.
 
“Who told you I persuaded him?” she asked.
 
“Nobody,” answered the child.  “I knew.”
 
Joan seated herself, and drew the child towards her.
 
“It isn’t as terrible as you think,” she said.  “Many men who have risen and taken a high place in the world were married to kind, good women unable to share their greatness.  There was Shakespeare, you know, who married Anne Hathaway and had a clever daughter.  She was just a nice, homely³ body a few years older than himself.  And he seems to have been very fond of her; and was always running down to Stratford to be with her.”
 
“Yes, but he didn’t bring her up to London,” answered the child.  “Mama would have wanted to come; and Papa would have let her, and wouldn’t have gone to see Queen Elizabeth unless she had been invited too.”
 
Joan wished she had not mentioned Shakespeare.  There had surely been others; men who had climbed up and carried their impossible wives with them.  But she couldn’t think of one, just then.
 
“We must help her,” she answered somewhat lamely⁴.  “She’s anxious to learn, I know.”
 
The child shook her head.  “She doesn’t understand,” she said.  “And Papa won’t tell her.  He says it would only hurt her and do no good.”  The small hands were clenched⁵.  “I shall hate her if she spoils his life.”
 
The atmosphere was becoming tragic⁶.  Joan felt the need of escaping from it.  She sprang up.
 
“Oh, don’t be nonsensical,” she said.  “Your father isn’t the only man married to a woman not as clever as himself.  He isn’t going to let that stop him.  And your mother’s going to learn to be the wife of a great man and do the best she can.  And if they don’t like her they’ve got to put up with her.  I shall talk to the both of them.”  A wave of motherliness towards the entire Phillips family passed over her.  It included Hilda.  She caught the child to her and gave her a hug.  “You go back to school,” she said, “and get on as fast as you can, so that you’ll be able to be useful to him.”
 
The child flung her arms about her.  “You’re so beautiful and wonderful,” she said.  “You can do anything.  I’m so glad you came.”
 
Joan laughed.  It was surprising how easily the problem had been solved.  She would take Mrs. Phillips in hand at once.  At all events she should be wholesome⁷ and unobtrusive.  It would be a delicate mission, but Joan felt sure of her own tact⁸.  She could see his boyish eyes turned upon her with wonder and gratitude⁹.
 
“I was so afraid you would not be back before I went,” said the child.  “I ought to have gone this afternoon, but Papa let me stay till the evening.”
 
“You will help?” she added, fixing on Joan her great, grave eyes.
 
Joan promised, and the child went out.  She looked pretty when she smiled.  She closed the door behind her noiselessly.
 
It occurred to Joan that she would like to talk matters over with Greyson.  There was “Clorinda’s” attitude to be decided¹⁰ upon; and she was interested to know what view he himself would take.  Of course he would be on P---’s side.  The Evening Gazette had always supported the “gas and water school” of socialism; and to include the people’s food was surely only an extension of the principle.  She rang him up and Miss Greyson answered, asking her to come round to dinner: they would be alone.  And she agreed.
 
The Greysons lived in a small house squeezed into an angle of the Outer Circle, overlooking Regent’s Park.  It was charmingly furnished, chiefly with old Chippendale.  The drawing-room made quite a picture.  It was home-like and restful with its faded colouring, and absence of all show and overcrowding.  They sat there after dinner and discussed Joan’s news.  Miss Greyson was repairing a piece of old embroidery¹¹ she had brought back with her from Italy; and Greyson sat smoking, with his hands behind his head, and his long legs stretched out towards the fire.
 
“Carleton will want him to make his food policy include Tariff¹² Reform,” he said.  “If he prove pliable¹³, and is willing to throw over his free trade principles, all well and good.”
 
“What’s Carleton got to do with it?” demanded Joan with a note of indignation.
 
He turned his head towards her with an amused raising of the eyebrows¹⁵.  “Carleton owns two London dailies,” he answered, “and is in treaty for a third: together with a dozen others scattered¹⁶ about the provinces.  Most politicians find themselves, sooner or later, convinced by his arguments.  Phillips may prove the exception.”
 
“It would be rather interesting, a fight between them,” said Joan.  “Myself I should back Phillips.”
 
“He might win through,” mused¹⁴ Greyson.  “He’s the man to do it, if anybody could.  But the odds¹⁷ will be against him.”
 
“I don’t see it,” said Joan, with decision.
 
“I’m afraid you haven’t yet grasped the power of the Press,” he answered with a smile.  “Phillips speaks occasionally to five thousand people.  Carleton addresses every day a circle of five million readers.”
 
“Yes, but when Phillips does speak, he speaks to the whole country,” retorted Joan.
 
“Through the medium of Carleton and his like; and just so far as they allow his influence to permeate¹⁸ beyond the platform,” answered Greyson.
 
“But they report his speeches.  They are bound to,” explained Joan.
 
“It doesn’t read quite the same,” he answered.  “Phillips goes home under the impression that he has made a great success and has roused the country.  He and millions of other readers learn from the next morning’s headlines that it was ‘A Tame Speech’ that he made.  What sounded to him ‘Loud Cheers’ have sunk to mild ‘Hear, Hears.’  That five minutes’ hurricane of applause, during which wildly excited men and women leapt upon the benches and roared themselves hoarse¹⁹, and which he felt had settled the whole question, he searches for in vain.  A few silly interjections, probably pre-arranged by Carleton’s young lions, become ‘renewed interruptions.’  The report is strictly²⁰ truthful²¹; but the impression produced is that Robert Phillips has failed to carry even his own people with him.  And then follow leaders in fourteen widely-circulated Dailies, stretching from the Clyde to the Severn, foretelling²² how Mr. Robert Phillips could regain²³ his waning²⁴ popularity by the simple process of adopting Tariff Reform: or whatever the pet panacea²⁵ of Carleton and Co. may, at the moment, happen to be.”
 
“Don’t make us out all alike,” pleaded his sister with a laugh.  “There are still a few old-fashioned papers that do give their opponents fair play.”
 
“They are not increasing in numbers,” he answered, “and the Carleton group is.  There is no reason why in another ten years he should not control the entire popular press of the country.  He’s got the genius and he’s got the means.”
 
“The cleverest thing he has done,” he continued, turning to Joan, “is your Sunday Post.  Up till then, the working classes had escaped him.  With the Sunday Post, he has solved the problem.  They open their mouths; and he gives them their politics wrapped up in pictures and gossipy pars²⁶.”
 
Miss Greyson rose and put away her embroidery.  “But what’s his object?” she said.  “He must have more money than he can spend; and he works like a horse.  I could understand it, if he had any beliefs.”
 
“Oh, we can all persuade ourselves that we are the Heaven-ordained dictator of the human race,” he answered.  “Love of power is at the bottom of it.  Why do our Rockefellers and our Carnegies condemn²⁷ themselves to the existence of galley²⁸ slaves, ruining their digestions²⁹ so that they never can enjoy a square meal.  It isn’t the money; it’s the trouble of their lives how to get rid of that.  It is the notoriety, the power that they are out for.  In Carleton’s case, it is to feel himself the power behind the throne; to know that he can make and unmake statesmen; has the keys of peace and war in his pocket; is able to exclaim: Public opinion?  It is I.”
 
“It can be a respectable ambition,” suggested Joan.
 
“It has been responsible for most of man’s miseries,” he answered.  “Every world’s conqueror³⁰ meant to make it happy after he had finished knocking it about.  We are all born with it, thanks to the devil.”  He shifted his position and regarded her with critical eyes.  “You’ve got it badly,” he said.  “I can see it in the tilt³¹ of your chin and the quivering of your nostrils³².  You beware of it.”
 
Miss Greyson left them.  She had to finish an article.  They debated “Clorinda’s” views; and agreed that, as a practical housekeeper³³, she would welcome attention being given to the question of the nation’s food.  The Evening Gazette would support Phillips in principle, while reserving to itself the right of criticism when it came to details.
 
“What’s he like in himself?” he asked her.  “You’ve been seeing something of him, haven’t you?”
 
“Oh, a little,” she answered.  “He’s absolutely sincere; and he means business.  He won’t stop at the bottom of the ladder now he’s once got his foot upon it.”
 
“But he’s quite common, isn’t he?” he asked again.  “I’ve only met him in public.”
 
“No, that’s precisely³⁴ what he isn’t,” answered Joan.  “You feel that he belongs to no class, but his own.  The class of the Abraham Lincolns, and the Dantons.”
 
“England’s a different proposition,” he mused.  “Society counts for so much with us.  I doubt if we should accept even an Abraham Lincoln: unless in some supreme³⁵ crisis.  His wife rather handicaps him, too, doesn’t she?”
 
“She wasn’t born to be the châtelaine of Downing Street,” Joan admitted.  “But it’s not an official position.”
 
“I’m not so sure that it isn’t,” he laughed.  “It’s the dinner-table that rules in England.  We settle everything round a dinner-table.”
 
She was sitting in front of the fire in a high-backed chair.  She never cared to loll, and the shaded light from the electric sconces upon the mantelpiece illumined her.
 
“If the world were properly stage-managed, that’s what you ought to be,” he said, “the wife of a Prime Minister.  I can see you giving such an excellent performance.”
 
“I must talk to Mary,” he added, “see if we can’t get you off on some promising³⁶ young Under Secretary.”
 
“Don’t give me ideas above my station,” laughed Joan.  “I’m a journalist.”
 
“That’s the pity of it,” he said.  “You’re wasting the most important thing about you, your personality.  You would do more good in a drawing-room, influencing the rulers, than you will ever do hiding behind a pen.  It was the drawing-room that made the French Revolution.”
 
The firelight played about her hair.  “I suppose every woman dreams of reviving the old French Salon,” she answered.  “They must have been gloriously interesting.”  He was leaning forward with clasped hands.  “Why shouldn’t she?” he said.  “The reason that our drawing-rooms have ceased to lead is that our beautiful women are generally frivolous³⁷ and our clever women unfeminine.  What we are waiting for is an English Madame Roland.”
 
Joan laughed.  “Perhaps I shall some day,” she answered.
 
He insisted on seeing her as far as the bus.  It was a soft, mild night; and they walked round the Circle to Gloucester Gate.  He thought there would be more room in the buses at that point.
 
“I wish you would come oftener,” he said.  “Mary has taken such a liking³⁸ to you.  If you care to meet people, we can always whip up somebody of interest.”
 
She promised that she would.  She always felt curiously³⁹ at home with the Greysons.
 
They were passing the long sweep of Chester Terrace.  “I like this neighbourhood with its early Victorian atmosphere,” she said.  “It always makes me feel quiet and good.  I don’t know why.”
 
“I like the houses, too,” he said.  “There’s a character about them.  You don’t often find such fine drawing-rooms in London.”
 
“Don’t forget your promise,” he reminded her, when they parted.  “I shall tell Mary she may write to you.”
 
She met Carleton by chance a day or two later, as she was entering the office.  “I want to see you,” he said; and took her up with him into his room.
 
“We must stir the people up about this food business,” he said, plunging⁴⁰ at once into his subject.  “Phillips is quite right.  It overshadows everything.  We must make the country self-supporting.  It can be done and must.  If a war were to be sprung upon us we could be starved out in a month.  Our navy, in face of these new submarines, is no longer able to secure us.  France is working day and night upon them.  It may be a bogey⁴¹, or it may not.  If it isn’t, she would have us at her mercy; and it’s too big a risk to run.  You live in the same house with him, don’t you?  Do you often see him?”
 
“Not often,” she answered.
 
He was reading a letter.  “You were dining there on Friday night, weren’t you?” he asked her, without looking up.
 
Joan flushed.  What did he mean by cross-examining her in this way?  She was not at all used to impertinence from the opposite sex.
 
“Your information is quite correct,” she answered.
 
Her anger betrayed itself in her tone; and he shot a swift glance at her.
 
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said.  “A mutual⁴² friend, a Mr. Airlie, happened to be of the party, and he mentioned you.”
 
He threw aside the letter.  “I’ll tell you what I want you to do,” he said.  “It’s nothing to object to.  Tell him that you’ve seen me and had a talk.  I understand his scheme to be that the country should grow more and more food until it eventually becomes self-supporting; and that the Government should control the distribution.  Tell him that with that I’m heart and soul in sympathy; and would like to help him.”  He pushed aside a pile of papers and, leaning across the desk, spoke⁴³ with studied deliberation.  “If he can see his way to making his policy dependent upon Protection, we can work together.”
 
“And if he can’t?” suggested Joan.
 
He fixed⁴⁴ his large, colourless eyes upon her.  “That’s where you can help him,” he answered.  “If he and I combine forces, we can pull this through in spite of the furious opposition⁴⁵ that it is going to arouse.  Without a good Press he is helpless; and where is he going to get his Press backing if he turns me down?  From half a dozen Socialist⁴⁶ papers whose support will do him more harm than good.  If he will bring the working class over to Protection I will undertake that the Tariff Reformers and the Agricultural Interest shall accept his Socialism.  It will be a victory for both of us.
 
“If he gain his end, what do the means matter?” he continued, as Joan did not answer.  “Food may be dearer; the unions can square that by putting up wages; while the poor devil of a farm labourer will at last get fair treatment.  We can easily insist upon that.  What do you think, yourself?”
 
“About Protection,” she answered.  “It’s one of the few subjects I haven’t made up my mind about.”
 
He laughed.  “You will find all your pet reforms depend upon it, when you come to work them out,” he said.  “You can’t have a minimum wage without a minimum price.”
 
They had risen.
 
“I’ll give him your message,” said Joan.  “But I don’t see him exchanging his principles even for your support.  I admit it’s important.”
 
“Talk it over with him,” he said.  “And bear this in mind for your own guidance.”  He took a step forward, which brought his face quite close to hers: “If he fails, and all his life’s work goes for nothing, I shall be sorry; but I shan’t break my heart.  He will.”
 
Joan dropped a note into Phillips’s letter-box on her return home, saying briefly⁴⁷ that she wished to see him; and he sent up answer asking her if she would come to the gallery that evening, and meet him after his speech, which would be immediately following the dinner hour.
 
It was the first time he had risen since his appointment, and he was received with general cheers.  He stood out curiously youthful against the background of grey-haired and bald-headed men behind him; and there was youth also in his clear, ringing voice that not even the vault-like atmosphere of that shadowless chamber⁴⁸ could altogether rob of its vitality⁴⁹.............