"Woman's right to follow the dictates of her own heart, uncontrolled by any law," the Human Doc.u.ment was insisting: "That is one of the first things we must fight for."

Mr. Folk was a well-known artist. He lived in Paris. "You are wonderfully like your mother," he told Joan. "In appearance, I mean," he added. "I knew her when she was Miss Caxton. I acted with her in America."

Joan made a swift effort to hide her surprise. She had never heard of her mother having been upon the stage.

"I did not know that you had been an actor," she answered.

"I wasn't really," explained Mr. Folk. "I just walked and talked naturally. It made rather a sensation at the time. Your mother was a genius. You have never thought of going on the stage yourself?"

"No," said Joan. "I don't think I've got what you call the artistic temperament. I have never felt drawn towards anything of that sort."

"I wonder," he said. "You could hardly be your mother's daughter without it."

"Tell me," said Joan. "What was my mother like? I can only remember her as more or less of an invalid."

He did not reply to her question. "Master or Mistress Eminent Artist,"

he said; "intends to retire from his or her particular stage, whatever it may be. That paragraph ought always to be put among the obituary notices."

"What's your line?" he asked her. "I take it you have one by your being here. Besides, I am sure you have. I am an old fighter. I can tell the young soldier. What's your regiment?"

Joan laughed. "I'm a drummer boy," she answered. "I beat my drum each week in a Sunday newspaper, hoping the lads will follow."

"You feel you must beat that drum," he suggested. "Beat it louder and louder and louder till all the world shall hear it."

"Yes," Joan agreed, "I think that does describe me."

He nodded. "I thought you were an artist," he said. "Don't let them ever take your drum away from you. You'll go to pieces and get into mischief without it."

"I know an old actress," he continued. "She's the mother of four. They are all on the stage and they've all made their mark. The youngest was born in her dressing-room, just after the curtain had fallen. She was playing the Nurse to your mother's Juliet. She is still the best Nurse that I know. 'Jack's always worrying me to chuck it and devote myself to the children,' she confided to me one evening, while she was waiting for her cue. 'But, as I tell him, I'm more helpful to them being with them half the day alive than all the day dead.' That's an anecdote worth remembering, when your time comes. If G.o.d gives woman a drum he doesn't mean man to take it away from her. She hasn't got to be playing it for twenty-four hours a day. I'd like you to have seen your mother's Cordelia."

Flossie was tacking her way towards them. Joan acted on impulse. "I wish you'd give me your address," she said "where I could write to you.

Or perhaps you would not mind my coming and seeing you one day. I would like you to tell me more about my mother."

He gave her his address in Paris where he was returning almost immediately.

"Do come," he said. "It will take me back thirty-three years. I proposed to your mother on La Grande Terra.s.se at St. Germain. We will walk there. I'm still a bachelor." He laughed, and, kissing her hand, allowed himself to be hauled away by Flossie, in exchange for Mrs.

Phillips, for whom Miss Lavery had insisted on an invitation.

Joan had met Mrs. Phillips several times; and once, on the stairs, had stopped and spoken to her; but had never been introduced to her formally till now.

"We have been meaning to call on you so often," panted Mrs. Phillips. The room was crowded and the exertion of squeezing her way through had winded the poor lady. "We take so much interest in your articles. My husband--"

she paused for a second, before venturing upon the word, and the aitch came out somewhat over-aspirated--"reads them most religiously. You must come and dine with us one evening."

Joan answered that she would be very pleased.

"I will find out when Robert is free and run up and let you know," she continued. "Of course, there are so many demands upon him, especially during this period of national crisis, that I spare him all the social duties that I can. But I shall insist on his making an exception in your case."

Joan murmured her sense of favour, but hoped she would not be allowed to interfere with more pressing calls upon Mr. Phillips's time.

"It will do him good," answered Mrs. Phillips; "getting away from them all for an hour or two. I don't see much of him myself."

She glanced round and lowered her voice. "They tell me," she said, "that you're a B.A."

"Yes," answered Joan. "One goes in for it more out of vanity, I'm afraid, than for any real purpose that it serves."

"I took one or two prizes myself," said Mrs. Phillips. "But, of course, one forgets things. I was wondering if you would mind if I ran up occasionally to ask you a question. Of course, as you know, my 'usband 'as 'ad so few advantages"--the lady's mind was concerned with more important matters, and the aspirates, on this occasion, got themselves neglected--"It is wonderful what he 'as done without them. But if, now and then, I could 'elp him--"

There was something about the poor, foolish painted face, as it looked up pleadingly, that gave it a momentary touch of beauty.

"Do," said Joan, speaking earnestly. "I shall be so very pleased if you will."

"Thank you," said the woman. Miss Lavery came up in a hurry to introduce her to Miss Tolley. "I am telling all my friends to read your articles,"

she added, resuming the gracious patroness, as she bowed her adieus.

Joan was alone again for a while. A handsome girl, with her hair cut short and parted at the side, was discussing diseases of the spine with a curly-headed young man in a velvet suit. The gentleman was describing some of the effects in detail. Joan felt there was danger of her being taken ill if she listened any longer; and seeing Madge's brother near the door, and unoccupied, she made her way across to him.

Niel Singleton, or Keeley, as he called himself upon the stage, was quite unlike his sister. He was short and plump, with a preternaturally solemn face, contradicted by small twinkling eyes. He motioned Joan to a chair and told her to keep quiet and not disturb the meeting.

"Is he brainy?" he whispered after a minute.

"I like him," said Joan.

"I didn't ask you if you liked him," he explained to her. "I asked you if he was brainy. I'm not too sure that you like brainy men."

"Yes, I do," said Joan. "I like you, sometimes."

"Now, none of that," he said severely. "It's no good your thinking of me. I'm wedded to my art. We are talking about Mr. Halliday."

"What does Madge think of him?" asked Joan.

"Madge has fallen in love with him, and her judgment is not to be relied upon," he said. "I suppose you couldn't answer a straight question, if you tried."

"Don't be so harsh with me," pleaded Joan meekly. "I'm trying to think.

Yes," she continued, "decidedly he's got brains."

"Enough for the two of them?" demanded Mr. Singleton. "Because he will want them. Now think before you speak."

Joan considered. "Yes," she answered. "I should say he's just the man to manage her."

"Then it's settled," he said. "We must save her."

"Save her from what?" demanded Joan.

"From his saying to himself: 'This is Flossie's idea of a party. This is the sort of thing that, if I marry her, I am letting myself in for.' If he hasn't broken off the engagement already, we may be in time."

He led the way to the piano. "Tell Madge I want her," he whispered. He struck a few notes; and then in a voice that drowned every other sound in the room, struck up a comic song.

The effect was magical.