Mrs. Phillips was sitting up in an easy chair near the heavily-curtained windows when Joan arrived.  It was a pleasant little house in the old part of the town, and looked out upon the harbour.  She was startlingly thin by comparison with what she had been; but her face was still painted.  Phillips would run down by the afternoon train whenever he could get away.  She never knew when he was coming, so she explained; and she could not bear the idea of his finding her “old and ugly.”  She had fought against his wish that she should go into a nursing home; and Joan, who in the course of her work upon the Nursing Times had acquired some knowledge of them as a whole, was inclined to agree with her.  She was quite comfortable where she was.  The landlady¹, according to her account, was a dear.  She had sent the nurse out for a walk on getting Joan’s wire, so that they could have a cosy² chat.  She didn’t really want much attendance.  It was her heart.  It got feeble now and then, and she had to keep very still; that was all.  Joan told how her father had suffered for years from much the same complaint.  So long as you were careful there was no danger.  She must take things easily and not excite herself.  
Mrs. Phillips acquiesced³.  “It’s turning me into a lazy-bones,” she said with a smile.  “I can sit here by the hour, just watching the bustle⁴.  I was always one for a bit of life.”
 
The landlady entered with Joan’s tea.  Joan took an instinctive⁵ dislike to her.  She was a large, flashy woman, wearing a quantity of cheap jewellery.  Her familiarity had about it something almost threatening.  Joan waited till she heard the woman’s heavy tread descending⁶ the stairs, before she expressed her opinion.
 
“I think she only means to be cheerful,” explained Mrs. Phillips.  “She’s quite a good sort, when you know her.”  The subject seemed in some way to trouble her, and Joan dropped it.
 
They watched the loading of a steamer while Joan drank her tea.
 
“He will come this afternoon, I fancy,” said Mrs. Phillips.  “I seem to feel it.  He will be able to see you home.”
 
Joan started.  She had been thinking about Phillips, wondering what she should say to him when they met.
 
“What does he think,” she asked, “about your illness?”
 
“Oh, it worries him, of course, poor dear,” Mrs. Phillips answered.  “You see, I’ve always been such a go-ahead, as a rule.  But I think he’s getting more hopeful.  As I tell him, I’ll be all right by the autumn.  It was that spell of hot weather that knocked me over.”
 
Joan was still looking out of the window.  She didn’t quite know what to say.  The woman’s altered appearance had shocked her.  Suddenly she felt a touch upon her hand.
 
“You’ll look after him if anything does happen, won’t you?”  The woman’s eyes were pleading with her.  They seemed to have grown larger.  “You know what I mean, dear, don’t you?” she continued.  “It will be such a comfort to me to know that it’s all right.”
 
In answer the tears sprang to Joan’s eyes.  She knelt down and put her arms about the woman.
 
“Don’t be so silly,” she cried.  “There’s nothing going to happen.  You’re going to get fat and well again; and live to see him Prime Minister.”
 
“I am getting thin, ain’t I?” she said.  “I always wanted to be thin.”  They both laughed.
 
“But I shan’t see him that, even if I do live,” she went on.  “He’ll never be that, without you.  And I’d be so proud to think that he would.  I shouldn’t mind going then,” she added.
 
Joan did not answer.  There seemed no words that would come.
 
“You will promise, won’t you?” she persisted, in a whisper.  “It’s only ‘in case’—just that I needn’t worry myself.”
 
Joan looked up.  There was something in the eyes looking down upon her that seemed to be compelling her.
 
“If you’ll promise to try and get better,” she answered.
 
Mrs. Phillips stooped and kissed her.  “Of course, dear,” she said.  “Perhaps I shall, now that my mind is easier.”
 
Phillips came, as Mrs. Phillips had predicted.  He was surprised at seeing Joan.  He had not thought she could get back so soon.  He brought an evening paper with him.  It contained a paragraph to the effect that Mrs. Phillips, wife of the Rt. Hon. Robert Phillips, M.P., was progressing favourably⁷ and hoped soon to be sufficiently⁸ recovered to return to her London residence.  It was the first time she had had a paragraph all to herself, headed with her name.  She flushed with pleasure; and Joan noticed that, after reading it again, she folded the paper up small and slipped it into her pocket.  The nurse came in from her walk a little later and took Joan downstairs with her.
 
“She ought not to talk to more than one person at a time,” the nurse explained, with a shake of the head.  She was a quiet, business-like woman.  She would not express a definite opinion.
 
“It’s her mental state that is the trouble,” was all that she would say.  “She ought to be getting better.  But she doesn’t.”
 
“You’re not a Christian⁹ Scientist, by any chance?” she asked Joan suddenly.
 
“No,” answered Joan.  “Surely you’re not one?”
 
“I don’t know,” answered the woman.  “I believe that would do her more good than anything else.  If she would listen to it.  She seems to have lost all will-power.”
 
The nurse left her; and the landlady came in to lay the table.  She understood that Joan would be dining with Mr. Phillips.  There was no train till the eight-forty.  She kept looking at Joan as she moved about the room.  Joan was afraid she would begin to talk, but she must have felt Joan’s antagonism¹⁰ for she remained silent.  Once their eyes met, and the woman leered at her.
 
Phillips came down looking more cheerful.  He had detected improvement in Mrs. Phillips.  She was more hopeful in herself.  They talked in low tones during the meal, as people do whose thoughts are elsewhere.  It happened quite suddenly, Phillips explained.  They had come down a few days after the rising of Parliament.  There had been a spell of hot weather; but nothing remarkable¹¹.  The first attack had occurred about three weeks ago.  It was just after Hilda had gone back to school.  He wasn’t sure whether he ought to send for Hilda, or not.  Her mother didn’t want him to—not just yet.  Of course, if she got worse, he would have to.  What did Joan think?—did she think there was any real danger?
 
Joan could not say.  So much depended upon the general state of health.  There was the case of her own father.  Of course she would always be subject to attacks.  But this one would have warned her to be careful.
 
Phillips thought that living out of town might be better for her, in the future—somewhere in Surrey, where he could easily get up and down.  He could sleep himself at the club on nights when he had to be late.
 
They talked without looking at one another.  They did not speak about themselves.
 
Mrs. Phillips was in bed when Joan went up to say good-bye.  “You’ll come again soon?” she asked, and Joan promised.  “You’ve made me so happy,” she whispered.  The nurse was in the room.
 
They discussed politics in the train.  Phillips had found more support for his crusade against Carleton than he had expected.  He was going to open the attack at once, thus forestalling¹² Carleton’s opposition¹³ to his land scheme.
 
“It isn’t going to be the Daily This and the Daily That and the Weekly the Other all combined to down me.  I’m going to tell the people that it’s Carleton and only Carleton—Carleton here, Carleton there, Carleton everywhere, against them.  I’m going to drag him out into the open and make him put up his own fists.”
 
Joan undertook to sound Greyson.  She was sure Greyson would support him, in his balanced, gentlemanly way, that could nevertheless be quite deadly.
 
They grew less and less afraid of looking at one another as they felt that darkened room further and further behind them.
 
They parted at Charing¹⁴ Cross.  Joan would write.  They agreed it would be better to choose separate days for their visits to Folkestone.
 
She ran against Madge in the morning, and invited herself to tea.  Her father had returned to Liverpool, and her own rooms, for some reason, depressed¹⁵ her.  Flossie was there with young Halliday.  They were both off the next morning to his people’s place in Devonshire, from where they were going to get married, and had come to say good-bye.  Flossie put Sam in the passage and drew-to the door.
 
“Have you seen her?” she asked.  “How is she?”
 
“Oh, she’s changed a good deal,” answered Joan.  “But I think she’ll get over it all right, if she’s careful.”
 
“I shall hope for the best,” answered Flossie.  “Poor old soul, she’s had a good time.  Don’t send me a present; and then I needn’t send you one—when your time comes.  It’s a silly custom.  Besides, I’ve nowhere to put it.  Shall be in a ship for the next six months.  Will let you know when we’re back.”
 
She gave Joan a hug and a kiss, and was gone.  Joan joined Madge in the kitchen, where she was toasting buns.
 
“I suppose she’s satisfied herself that he’s brainy,” she laughed.
 
“Oh, brains aren’t everything,” answered Madge.  “Some of the worst rotters the world has ever been cursed with have been brainy enough—men and women.  We make too much fuss about brains; just as once upon a time we did about mere¹⁶ brute¹⁷ strength, thinking that was all that was needed to make a man great.  Brain is only muscle translated into civilization.  That’s not going to save us.”
 
“You’ve been thinking,” Joan accused her.  “What’s put all that into your head?”
 
Madge laughed.  “Mixing with so many brainy people, perhaps,” she suggested; “and wondering what’s become of their souls.”
 
“Be good, sweet child.  And let who can be clever,” Joan quoted.  “Would that be your text?”
 
Madge finished buttering her buns.  “Kant, wasn’t it,” she answered, “who marvelled¹⁸ chiefly at two things: the starry¹⁹ firmament²⁰ above him and the moral law within him.  And they’re one and the same, if he’d only thought it out.  It’s rather big to be good.”
 
They carried their tea into the sitting-room²¹.
 
“Do you really think she’ll get over it?” asked Madge.  “Or is it one of those things one has to say?”
 
“I think she could,” answered Joan, “if she would pull herself together.  It’s her lack of will-power that’s the trouble.”
 
Madge did not reply immediately.  She was watching the rooks settling down for the night in the elm trees just beyond the window.  There seemed to be much need of coming and going, of much cawing.
 
“I met her pretty often during those months that Helen Lavery was running her round,” she said at length.  “It always seemed to me to have a touch of the heroic, that absurd effort she was making to ‘qualify’ herself, so that she might be of use to him.  I can see her doing something quite big, if she thought it would help him.”
 
The cawing of the rooks grew fainter.  One by one they folded their wings.
 
Neither spoke²² for a while.  Later on, they talked about the coming election.  If the Party got back, Phillips would go to the Board of Trade.  It would afford him a better platform for the introduction of his land scheme.
 
“What do you gather is the general opinion?” Joan asked.  “That he will succeed?”
 
“The general opinion seems to be that his star is in the ascendant,” Madge answered with a smile; “that all things are working together for his good.  It’s rather a useful atmosphere to have about one, that.  It breeds friendship and support!”
 
Joan looked at her watch.  She had an article to finish.  Madge stood on tiptoe and kissed her.
 
“Don’t think me unsympathetic,” she said.  “No one will rejoice more than I shall if God sees fit to call you to good work.  But I can’t help letting fall my little tear of fellowship with the weeping.”
 
“And mind your p’s and q’s,” she added.  “You’re in a difficult position.  And not all the eyes watching you are friendly.”
 
Joan bore the germ of worry in her breast as she crossed the Gray’s Inn Garden.  It was a hard law, that of the world: knowing only winners and losers.  Of course, the woman was to be pitied.  No one could feel more sorry for her than Joan herself.  But what had Madge exactly meant by those words: that she could “see her doing something really big,” if she thought it would help him?  There was no doubt about her affection for him.  It was almost dog-like.  And the child, also!  There must be something quite exceptional about him to have won the devotion of two such opposite beings.  Especially Hilda.  It would be hard to imagine any lengths to which Hilda’s blind idolatry would not lead her.
 
She ran down twice to Folkestone during the following week.  Her visits made her mind easier.  Mrs. Phillips seemed so placid²³, so contented²⁴.  There was no suggestion of suffering, either mental or physical.
 
She dined with the Greysons the Sunday after, and mooted²⁵ the question of the coming fight with Carleton.  Greyson thought Phillips would find plenty of journalistic backing.  The concentration of the Press into the hands of a few conscienceless schemers was threatening to reduce the journalist to a mere hireling, and the better-class men were becoming seriously alarmed.  He found in his desk the report of a speech made by a well-known leader writer at a recent dinner of the Press Club.  The man had risen to respond to the toast of his own health and had taken the opportunity to unpack²⁶ his heart.
 
“I am paid a thousand a year,” so Greyson read to them, “for keeping my own opinions out of my paper.  Some of you, perhaps, earn more, and others less; but you’re getting it for writing what you’re told.  If I were to be so foolish as to express my honest opinion, I’d be on the street, the next morning, looking for another job.”
 
“The business of the journalist,” the man had continued, “is to destroy the truth, to lie, to pervert²⁷, to vilify²⁸, to fawn²⁹ at the feet of Mammon, to sell his soul for his daily bread.  We are the tools and vassals³⁰ of rich men behind the scenes.  We are the jumping-jacks.  They pull the strings³² and we dance.  Our talents, our possibilities, our lives are the property of other men.”
 
“We tried to pretend it was only one of Jack³¹’s little jokes,” explained Greyson as he folded up the cutting; “but it wouldn’t work.  It was too near the truth.”
 
“I don’t see what you are going to do,” commented Mary.  “So long as men are not afraid to sell their souls, there will always be a Devil’s market for them.”
 
Greyson did not so much mind there being a Devil’s market, provided he could be assured of an honest market alongside, so that a man coul............