emed　that　even　they　had　a　sort　of　consciencewere　up　in　arms　against　it。　　Too　much　kindness　even　they　themselves　perceived　was　bad　for　them。　　They　were　holding　a　meeting　that　night　to　explain　how　contented　they　were。　　Six　peeresses　had　consented　to　attend；　and　speak　for　them。
  Likely　enough　that　there　were　good…for…nothing；　cockered　menials　imposing　upon　incompetent　mistresses。　　There　were　pampered　slaves　in　Rome。　　But　these　others。　　These　poor　little　helpless　sluts。　There　were　thousands　such　in　every　city；　over…worked　and　under…fed；　living　lonely；　pleasureless　lives。　　They　must　be　taught　to　speak　in　other　voices　than　the　dulcet　tones　of　peeresses。　　By　the　light　of　the　guttering　candles；　from　their　chill　attics；　they　should　write　to　her　their　ill…spelt　visions。
  She　had　reached　a　quiet；　tree…bordered　road；　surrounding　a　great　park。　　Lovers；　furtively　holding　hands；　passed　her　by；　whispering。
  She　would　write　books。　　She　would　choose　for　her　heroine　a　woman　of　the　people。　　How　full　of　drama；　of　tragedy　must　be　their　stories：　their　problems　the　grim　realities　of　life；　not　only　its　mere　sentimental　embroideries。　　The　daily　struggle　for　bare　existence；　the　ever…shadowing　menace　of　unemployment；　of　illness；　leaving　them　helpless　amid　the　grinding　forces　crushing　them　down　on　every　side。　The　ceaseless　need　for　courage；　for　cunning。　　For　in　the　kingdom　of　the　poor　the　tyrant　and　the　oppressor　still　sit　in　the　high　places；　the　robber　still　rides　fearless。
  In　a　noisy；　flaring　street；　a　thin…clad　woman　passed　her；　carrying　a　netted　bag　showing　two　loaves。　　In　a　flash；　it　came　to　her　what　it　must　mean　to　the　poor；　this　daily　bread　that　in　comfortable　homes　had　come　to　be　regarded　as　a　thing　like　water；　not　to　be　considered；　to　be　used　without　stint；　wasted；　thrown　about。　　Borne　by　those　feeble；　knotted　hands；　Joan　saw　it　revealed　as　something　holy：　　hallowed　by　labour；　sanctified　by　suffering；　by　sacrifice；　worshipped　with　fear　and　prayer。
  In　quiet　streets　of　stately　houses；　she　caught　glimpses　through　uncurtained　windows　of　richly…laid　dinner…tables　about　which　servants　moved　noiselessly；　arranging　flowers　and　silver。　　She　wondered　idly　if　she　would　every　marry。　　A　gracious　hostess；　gathering　around　her　brilliant　men　and　women；　statesmen；　writers；　artists；　captains　of　industry：　　counselling　them；　even　learning　from　them：　　encouraging　shy　genius。　　Perhaps；　in　a　perfectly　harmless　way；　allowing　it　the　inspiration　derivable　from　a　well…　regulated　devotion　to　herself。　　A　salon　that　should　be　the　nucleus　of　all　those　forces　that　influence　influences；　over　which　she　would　rule　with　sweet　and　wise　authority。　　The　idea　appealed　to　her。
  Into　the　picture；　slightly　to　the　background；　she　unconsciously　placed　Greyson。　　His　tall；　thin　figure　with　its　air　of　distinction　seemed　to　fit　in；　Greyson　would　be　very　restful。　　She　could　see　his　handsome；　ascetic　face　flush　with　pleasure　as；　after　the　guests　were　gone；　she　would　lean　over　the　back　of　his　chair　and　caress　for　a　moment　his　dark；　soft　hair　tinged　here　and　there　with　grey。　　He　would　always　adore　her；　in　that　distant；　undemonstrative　way　of　his　that　would　never　be　tiresome　or　exacting。　　They　would　have　children。　　But　not　too　many。　　That　would　make　the　house　noisy　and　distract　her　from　her　work。　　They　would　be　beautiful　and　clever；　unless　all　the　laws　of　heredity　were　to　be　set　aside　for　her　especial　injury。　　She　would　train　them；　shape　them　to　be　the　heirs　of　her　labour；　bearing　her　message　to　the　generations　that　should　follow。
  At　a　corner　where　the　trams　and　buses　stopped　she　lingered　for　a　while；　watching　the　fierce　struggle；　the　weak　and　aged　being　pushed　back　time　after　time；　hardly　seeming　to　even　resent　it；　regarding　it　as　in　the　natural　order　of　things。　　It　was　so　absurd；　apart　from　the　injustice；　the　brutality　of　it！　　The　poor；　fighting　among　themselves！　　She　felt　as　once　when　watching　a　crowd　of　birds　to　whom　she　had　thrown　a　handful　of　crumbs　in　winter　time。　　As　if　they　had　not　enemies　enough：　　cats；　weasels；　rats；　hawks；　owls；　the　hunger　and　the　cold。　　And　added　to　all；　they　must　needs　make　the　struggle　yet　harder　for　one　another：　　pecking　at　each　other's　eyes；　joining　with　one　another　to　attack　the　fallen。　　These　tired　men；　these　weary　women；　pale…faced　lads　and　girls；　why　did　they　not　organize　among　themselves　some　system　that　would　do　away　with　this　daily　warfare　of　each　against　all。　　If　only　they　could　be　got　to　grasp　the　fact　that　they　were　one　family；　bound　together　by　suffering。　　Then；　and　not　till　then；　would　they　be　able　to　make　their　power　felt？　　That　would　have　to　come　first：　　the　Esprit　de　Corps　of　the　Poor。
  In　the　end　she　would　go　into　Parliament。　　It　would　be　bound　to　come　soon；　the　woman's　vote。　　And　after　that　the　opening　of　all　doors　would　follow。　　She　would　wear　her　college　robes。　　It　would　be　far　more　fitting　than　a　succession　of　flimsy　frocks　that　would　have　no　meaning　in　them。　　What　pity　it　was　that　the　art　of　dressingits　relation　to　lifewas　not　better　understood。　　What　beauty…hating　devil　had　prompted　the　workers　to　discard　their　characteristic　costumes　that　had　been　both　beautiful　and　serviceable　for　these　hateful　slop…shop　clothes　that　made　them　look　like　walking　scarecrows。　　Why　had　the　coming　of　Democracy　coincided　seemingly　with　the　spread　of　ugliness：　　dull　towns；　mean　streets；　paper…　strewn　parks；　corrugated　iron　roofs；　Christian　chapels　that　would　be　an　insult　to　a　heathen　idol；　hideous　factories　（Why　need　they　be　hideous！）；　chimney…pot　hats；　baggy　trousers；　vulgar　advertisements；　stupid　fashions　for　women　that　spoilt　every　line　of　their　figure：　dinginess；　drabness；　monotony　everywhere。　　It　was　ugliness　that　was　strangling　the　soul　of　the　people；　stealing　from　them　all　dignity；　all　self…respect；　all　honour　for　one　another；　robbing　them　of　hope；　of　reverence；　of　joy　in　life。
  Beauty。　　That　was　the　key　to　the　riddle。　　All　Nature：　　its　golden　sunsets　and　its　silvery　dawns；　the　glory　of　piled…up　clouds；　the　mystery　of　moon…lit　glades；　its　rivers　winding　through　the　meadows；　the　calling　of　its　restless　seas；　the　tender　witchery　of　Spring；　the　blazonry　of　autumn　woods；　its　purple　moors　and　the　wonder　of　its　silent　mountains；　its　cobwebs　glittering　with　a　thousand　jewels；　the　pageantry　of　starry　nights。　　Form；　colour；　music！　　The　feathered　choristers　of　bush　and　brake　raising　their　matin　and　their　evensong；　the　whispering　of　the　leaves；　the　singing　of　the　waters；　the　voices　of　the　winds。　　Beauty　and　grace　in　every　living　thing；　but　man。　　The　leaping　of　the　hares；　the　grouping　of　cattle；　the　flight　of　swallows；　the　dainty　loveliness　of　insects'　wings；　the　glossy　skin　of　horses　rising　and　falling　to　the　play　of　mighty　muscles。　　Was　it　not　seeking　to　make　plain　to　us　that　God's　language　was　beauty。　　Man　must　learn　beauty　that　he　may　understand　God。
  She　saw　the　London　of　the　future。　　Not　the　vision　popular　just　then：　　a　soaring　whirl　of　machinery　in　motion；　of　moving　pavements　and　flying　omnibuses；　of　screaming　gramophones　and　standardized　〃homes〃：　　a　city　where　Electricity　was　King　and　man　its　soulless　slave。　　But　a　city　of　peace；　of　restful　spaces；　of　leisured　men　and　women；　a　city　of　fine　streets　and　pleasant　houses；　where　each　could　live　his　own　life；　learning　freedom；　individuality；　a　city　of　noble　schools；　of　workshops　that　should　be　worthy　of　labour；　filled　with　light　and　air；　smoke　and　filth　driven　from　the　land：　　science；　no　longer　bound　to　commercialism；　having　discovered　cleaner　forces；　a　city　of　gay　playgrounds　where　children　should　learn　laughter；　of　leafy　walks　where　the　creatures　of　the　wood　and　field　should　be　as　welcome　guests　helping　to　teach　sympathy　and　kindliness：　　a　city　of　music；　of　colour；　of　gladness。　　Beauty　worshipped　as　religion；　ugliness　banished　as　a　sin：　　no　ugly　slums；　no　ugly　cruelty；　no　slatternly　women　and　brutalized　men；　no　ugly；　sobbing　children；　no　ugly　vice　flaunting　in　every　highway　its　insult　to　humanity：　　a　city　clad　in　beauty　as　with　a　living　garment　where　God　should　walk　with　man。
  She　had　reached　a　neighbourhood　of　narrow；　crowded　streets。　　The　women　were　mostly　without　hats；　and　swarthy　men；　rolling　cigarettes；　lounged　against　doorways。　　The　place　had　a　quaint　foreign　flavour。　　Tiny　cafes；　filled　with　smoke　and　noise；　and　clean；　inviting　restaurants　abounded。　　She　was　feeling　hungry；　and；　choosing　one　the　door　of　which　stood　open；　revealing　white　tablecloths　and　a　pleasant　air　of　cheerfulness；　she　entered。　　It　was　late　and　the　tables　were　crowded。　　Only　at　one；　in　a　far　corner；　could　she　detect　a　vacant　place；　opposite　to　a　slight；　pretty…looking　girl　very　quietly　dressed。　　She　made　her　way　across　and　the　girl；　anticipating　her　request；　welcomed　her　with　a　smile。　They　ate　for　a　while　in　silence；　divided　only　by　the　narrow　table；　their　heads；　when　they　leant　forward；　almost　touching。　　Joan　noticed　the　short；　white　hands；　the　fragrance　of　some　delicate　scent。　　There　was　something　odd　about　her。　　She　seemed　to　be　unnecessarily　conscious　of　being　alone。　　Suddenly　she　spoke。
  〃Nice　little　restaurant；　this；〃　she　said。　　〃One　of　the　few　places　where　you　can　depend　upon　not　being　annoyed。〃
  Joan　did　not　understand。　　〃In　what　way？〃　she　asked。
  〃Oh；　you　know；　men；〃　answered　the　girl。　　〃They　come　and　sit　down　opp