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 s.e.x.

"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 mutual 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, spoke 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 fixed 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 opposition 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 Socialist papers whose support will do him more harm than good. If he will bring the working cla.s.s 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 briefly 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 chamber could altogether rob of its vitality. He spoke simply and good-humouredly, without any attempt at rhetoric, relying chiefly upon a crescendo of telling facts that gradually, as he proceeded, roused the House to that tense stillness that comes to it when it begins to think.

"A distinctly dangerous man," Joan overheard a little old lady behind her comment to a friend. "If I didn't hate him, I should like him."

He met her in the corridor, and they walked up and down and talked, too absorbed to be aware of the curious eyes that were turned upon them. Joan gave him Carleton's message.

"It was clever of him to make use of you," he said. "If he'd sent it through anybody else, I'd have published it."

"You don't think it even worth considering?" suggested Joan.

"Protection?" he flashed out scornfully. "Yes, I've heard of that. I've listened, as a boy, while the old men told of it to one another, in thin, piping voices, round the fireside; how the labourers were flung eight-and- sixpence a week to die on, and the men starved in the towns; while the farmers kept their hunters, and got drunk each night on fine old crusted port. Do you know what their toast was in the big hotels on market day, with the windows open to the street: 'To a long war and a b.l.o.o.d.y one.' It would be their toast to-morrow, if they had their way. Does he think I am going to be a party to the putting of the people's neck again under their pitiless yoke?"

"But the people are more powerful now," argued Joan. "If the farmer demanded higher prices, they could demand higher wages."

"They would never overtake the farmer," he answered, with a laugh. "And the last word would always be with him. I am out to get rid of the landlords," he continued, "not to establish them as the permanent rulers of the country, as they are in Germany. The people are more powerful--just a little, because they are no longer dependent on the land. They can say to the farmer, 'All right, my son, if that's your figure, I'm going to the shop next door--to South America, to Canada, to Russia.' It isn't a satisfactory solution. I want to see England happy and healthy before I bother about the Argentine. It drives our men into the slums when they might be living fine lives in G.o.d's fresh air. In the case of war it might be disastrous. There, I agree with him. We must be able to shut our door without fear of having to open it ourselves to ask for bread. How would Protection accomplish that? Did he tell you?"

"Don't eat me," laughed Joan. "I haven't been sent to you as a missionary. I'm only a humble messenger. I suppose the argument is that, good profits a.s.sured to him, the farmer would bustle up and produce more."

"Can you see him bustling up?" he answered with a laugh; "organizing himself into a body, and working the thing out from the point of view of the public weal? I'll tell you what nine-tenths of him would do: grow just as much or little as suited his own purposes; and then go to sleep.

And Protection would be his security against ever being awakened."

"I'm afraid you don't like him," Joan commented.

"He will be all right in his proper place," he answered: "as the servant of the public: told what to do, and turned out of his job if he doesn't do it. My scheme does depend upon Protection. You can tell him that.

But this time, it's going to be Protection for the people."

They were at the far end of the corridor; and the few others still promenading were some distance away. She had not delivered the whole of her message. She crossed to a seat, and he followed her. She spoke with her face turned away from him.

"You have got to consider the cost of refusal," she said. "His offer wasn't help or neutrality: it was help or opposition by every means in his power. He left me in no kind of doubt as to that. He's not used to being challenged and he won't be squeamish. You will have the whole of his Press against you, and every other journalistic and political influence that he possesses. He's getting a hold upon the working cla.s.ses. The _Sunday Post_ has an enormous sale in the manufacturing towns; and he's talking of starting another. Are you strong enough to fight him?"

She very much wanted to look at him, but she would not. It seemed to her quite a time before he replied.

"Yes," he answered, "I'm strong enough to fight him. Shall rather enjoy doing it. And it's time that somebody did. Whether I'm strong enough to win has got to be seen."

She turned and looked at him then. She wondered why she had ever thought him ugly.

"You can face it," she said: "the possibility of all your life's work being wasted?"

"It won't be wasted," he answered. "The land is there. I've seen it from afar and it's a good land, a land where no man shall go hungry. If not I, another shall lead the people into it. I shall have prepared the way."

She liked him for that touch of exaggeration. She was so tired of the men who make out all things little, including themselves and their own work. After all, was it exaggeration? Might he not have been chosen to lead the people out of bondage to a land where there should be no more fear.

"You're not angry with me?" he asked. "I haven't been rude, have I?"

"Abominably rude," she answered, "you've defied my warnings, and treated my emba.s.sy with contempt." She turned to him and their eyes met. "I should have despised you, if you hadn't," she added.

There was a note of exultation in her voice; and, as if in answer, something leapt into his eyes that seemed to claim her. Perhaps it was well that just then the bell rang for a division; and the moment pa.s.sed.

He rose and held out his hand. "We will fight him," he said. "And you can tell him this, if he asks, that I'm going straight for him.

Parliament may as well close down if a few men between them are to be allowed to own the entire Press of the country, and stifle every voice that does not shout their bidding. We haven't dethroned kings to put up a newspaper Boss. He shall have all the fighting he wants."

They met more often from that day, for Joan was frankly using her two columns in the _Sunday Post_ to propagate his aims. Carleton, to her surprise, made no objection. Nor did he seek to learn the result of his ultimatum. It looked, they thought, as if he had a.s.sumed acceptance; and was willing for Phillips to choose his own occasion. Meanwhile replies to her articles reached Joan in weekly increasing numbers. There seemed to be a wind arising, blowing towards Protection. Farm labourers, especially, appeared to be enthusiastic for its coming. From their ill- spelt, smeared epistles, one gathered that, after years of doubt and hesitation, they had--however reluctantly--arrived at the conclusion that without it there could be no hope for them. Factory workers, miners, engineers--more fluent, less apologetic--wrote as strong supporters of Phillips's scheme; but saw clearly how upon Protection its success depended. Shopmen, clerks--only occasionally ungrammatical--felt sure that Robert Phillips, the tried friend of the poor, would insist upon the boon of Protection being no longer held back from the people. Wives and mothers claimed it as their children's birthright. Similar views got themselves at the same time, into the correspondence columns of Carleton's other numerous papers. Evidently Democracy had been throbbing with a pa.s.sion for Protection hitherto unknown, even to itself.

"He means it kindly," laughed Phillips. "He is offering me an excuse to surrender gracefully. We must have a public meeting or two after Christmas, and clear the ground." They had got into the habit of speaking in the plural.

Mrs. Phillips's conversion Joan found more difficult than she had antic.i.p.ated. She had persuaded Phillips to take a small house and let her furnish it upon the hire system. Joan went with her to the widely advertised "Emporium" in the City Road, meaning to advise her. But, in the end, she gave it up out of sheer pity. Nor would her advice have served much purpose, confronted by the "rich and varied choice" provided for his patrons by Mr. Krebs, the "Furnisher for Connoisseurs."

"We've never had a home exactly," explained Mrs. Phillips, during their journey in the tram. "It's always been lodgings, up to now. Nice enough, some of them; but you know what I mean; everybody else's taste but your own. I've always fancied a little house with one's own things in it. You know, things that you can get fond of."

Oh, the things she was going to get fond of! The things that her poor, round foolish eyes gloated upon the moment that she saw them! Joan tried to enlist the shopman on her side, descending even to flirtation.

Unfortunately he was a young man with a high sense of duty, convinced that his employer's interests lay in his support of Mrs. Phillips. The sight of the furniture that, between them, they selected for the dining- room gave Joan a quite distinct internal pain. They ascended to the floor above, devoted to the exhibition of "_Recherche_ drawing-room suites." Mrs. Phillips's eye instinctively fastened with pa.s.sionate desire upon the most atrocious. Joan grew vehement. It was impossible.

"I always was a one for cheerful colours," explained Mrs. Phillips.

Even the shopman wavered. Joan pressed her advantage; directed Mrs.

Phillips's attention to something a little less awful. Mrs. Phillips yielded.

"Of course you know best, dear," she admitted. "Perhaps I am a bit too fond of bright things."

The victory was won. Mrs. Phillips had turned away. The shopman was altering the order. Joan moved towards the door, and accidentally caught sight of Mrs. Phillips's face. The flabby mouth was trembling. A tear was running down the painted cheek.