The　old　lady　had　tired　herself。　　Joan　undertook　the　mission。　　She　thought　she　would　rather　enjoy　it；　and　Mrs。　Denton　promised　to　let　her　have　full　instructions。　　She　would　write　to　her　friends　in　Paris　and　prepare　them　for　Joan's　coming。
  Joan　remembered　Folk；　the　artist　she　had　met　at　Flossie's　party；　who　had　promised　to　walk　with　her　on　the　terrace　at　St。　Germain；　and　tell　her　more　about　her　mother。　　She　looked　up　his　address　on　her　return　home；　and　wrote　to　him；　giving　him　the　name　of　the　hotel　in　the　Rue　de　Grenelle　where　Mrs。　Denton　had　arranged　that　she　should　stay。　　She　found　a　note　from　him　awaiting　her　when　she　arrived　there。　　He　thought　she　would　like　to　be　quiet　after　her　journey。　　He　would　call　round　in　the　morning。　　He　had　presumed　on　the　privilege　of　age　to　send　her　some　lilies。　　They　had　been　her　mother's　favourite　flower。　　〃Monsieur　Folk；　the　great　artist；〃　had　brought　them　himself；　and　placed　them　in　her　dressing…room；　so　Madame　informed　her。
  It　was　one　of　the　half…dozen　old　hotels　still　left　in　Paris；　and　was　built　round　a　garden　famous　for　its　mighty　mulberry　tree。　　She　breakfasted　underneath　it；　and　was　reading　there　when　Folk　appeared　before　her；　smiling　and　with　his　hat　in　his　hand。　　He　excused　himself　for　intruding　upon　her　so　soon；　thinking　from　what　she　had　written　him　that　her　first　morning　might　be　his　only　chance。　　He　evidently　considered　her　remembrance　of　him　a　feather　in　his　cap。
  〃We　old　fellows　feel　a　little　sadly；　at　times；　how　unimportant　we　are；〃　he　explained。　　〃We　are　grateful　when　Youth　throws　us　a　smile。〃
  〃You　told　me　my　coming　would　take　you　back　thirty…three　years；〃　Joan　reminded　him。　　〃It　makes　us　about　the　same　age。　　I　shall　treat　you　as　just　a　young　man。〃
  He　laughed。　　〃Don't　be　surprised；〃　he　said；　〃if　I　make　a　mistake　occasionally　and　call　you　Lena。〃
  Joan　had　no　appointment　till　the　afternoon。　　They　drove　out　to　St。　Germain；　and　had　dejeuner　at　a　small　restaurant　opposite　the　Chateau；　and　afterwards　they　strolled　on　to　the　terrace。
  〃What　was　my　mother　doing　in　Paris？〃　asked　Joan；
  〃She　was　studying　for　the　stage；〃　he　answered。　　〃Paris　was　the　only　school　in　those　days。　　I　was　at　Julien's　studio。　　We　acted　together　for　some　charity。　　I　had　always　been　fond　of　it。　　An　American　manager　who　was　present　offered　us　both　an　engagement；　and　I　thought　it　would　be　a　change　and　that　I　could　combine　the　two　arts。〃
  〃And　it　was　here　that　you　proposed　to　her；〃　said　Joan。
  〃Just　by　that　tree　that　leans　forward；〃　he　answered；　pointing　with　his　cane　a　little　way　ahead。　　〃I　thought　that　in　America　I'd　get　another　chance。　　I　might　have　if　your　father　hadn't　come　along。　　I　wonder　if　he　remembers　me。〃
  〃Did　you　ever　see　her　again；　after　her　marriage？〃　asked　Joan。
  〃No；〃　he　answered。　　〃We　used　to　write　to　one　another　until　she　gave　it　up。　　She　had　got　into　the　habit　of　looking　upon　me　as　a　harmless　sort　of　thing　to　confide　in　and　ask　advice　ofwhich　she　never　took。〃
  〃Forgive　me；〃　he　said。　　〃You　must　remember　that　I　am　still　her　lover。〃　　They　had　reached　the　tree　that　leant　a　little　forward　beyond　its　fellows；　and　he　had　halted　and　turned　so　that　he　was　facing　her。　　〃Did　she　and　your　father　get　on　together。　　Was　she　happy？〃
  〃I　don't　think　she　was　happy；〃　answered　Joan。　　〃She　was　at　first。　As　a　child；　I　can　remember　her　singing　and　laughing　about　the　house；　and　she　liked　always　to　have　people　about　her。　　Until　her　illness　came。　　It　changed　her　very　much。　　But　my　father　was　gentleness　itself；　to　the　end。〃
  They　had　resumed　their　stroll。　　It　seemed　to　her　that　he　looked　at　her　once　or　twice　a　little　oddly　without　speaking。　　〃What　caused　your　mother's　illness？〃　he　asked；　abruptly。
  The　question　troubled　her。　　It　struck　her　with　a　pang　of　self…　reproach　that　she　had　always　been　indifferent　to　her　mother's　illness；　regarding　it　as　more　or　less　imaginary。　　〃It　was　mental　rather　than　physical；　I　think；〃　she　answered。　　〃I　never　knew　what　brought　it　about。〃
  Again　he　looked　at　her　with　that　odd；　inquisitive　expression。　　〃She　never　got　over　it？〃　he　asked。
  〃Oh；　there　were　times；〃　answered　Joan；　〃when　she　was　more　like　her　old　self　again。　　But　I　don't　think　she　ever　quite　got　over　it。　Unless　it　was　towards　the　end；〃　she　added。　　〃They　told　me　she　seemed　much　better　for　a　little　while　before　she　died。　　I　was　away　at　Cambridge　at　the　time。〃
  〃Poor　dear　lady；〃　he　said；　〃all　those　years！　　And　poor　Jack　Allway。〃　　He　seemed　to　be　talking　to　himself。　　Suddenly　he　turned　to　her。　　〃How　is　the　dear　fellow？〃　he　asked。
  Again　the　question　troubled　her。　　She　had　not　seen　her　father　since　that　week…end；　nearly　six　months　ago；　when　she　had　ran　down　to　see　him　because　she　wanted　something　from　him。　　〃He　felt　my　mother's　death　very　deeply；〃　she　answered。　　〃But　he's　well　enough　in　health。〃
  〃Remember　me　to　him；〃　he　said。　　〃And　tell　him　I　thank　him　for　all　those　years　of　love　and　gentleness。　　I　don't　think　he　will　be　offended。〃
  He　drove　her　back　to　Paris；　and　she　promised　to　come　and　see　him　in　his　studio　and　let　him　introduce　her　to　his　artist　friends。
  〃I　shall　try　to　win　you　over；　I　warn　you；〃　he　said。　　〃Politics　will　never　reform　the　world。　　They　appeal　only　to　men's　passions　and　hatreds。　　They　divide　us。　　It　is　Art　that　is　going　to　civilize　mankind；　broaden　his　sympathies。　　Art　speaks　to　him　the　common　language　of　his　loves；　his　dreams；　reveals　to　him　the　universal　kinship。〃
  Mrs。　Denton's　friends　called　upon　her；　and　most　of　them　invited　her　to　their　houses。　　A　few　were　politicians；　senators　or　ministers。　Others　were　bankers；　heads　of　business　houses；　literary　men　and　women。　　There　were　also　a　few　quiet　folk　with　names　that　were　historical。　　They　all　thought　that　war　between　France　and　England　would　be　a　world　disaster；　but　were　not　very　hopeful　of　averting　it。　　She　learnt　that　Carleton　was　in　Berlin　trying　to　secure　possession　of　a　well…known　German　daily　that　happened　at　the　moment　to　be　in　low　water。　　He　was　working　for　an　alliance　between　Germany　and　England。　　In　France；　the　Royalists　had　come　to　an　understanding　with　the　Clericals；　and　both　were　evidently　making　ready　to　throw　in　their　lot　with　the　war…mongers；　hoping　that　out　of　the　troubled　waters　the　fish　would　come　their　way。　　Of　course　everything　depended　on　the　people。　　If　the　people　only　knew　it！　　But　they　didn't。　　They　stood　about　in　puzzled　flocks；　like　sheep；　wondering　which　way　the　newspaper　dog　was　going　to　hound　them。　　They　took　her　to　the　great　music　halls。　　Every　allusion　to　war　was　greeted　with　rapturous　applause。　　The　Marseillaise　was　demanded　and　encored　till　the　orchestra　rebelled　from　sheer　exhaustion。　　Joan's　patience　was　sorely　tested。　　She　had　to　listen　with　impassive　face　to　coarse　jests　and　brutal　gibes　directed　against　England　and　everything　English；　to　sit　unmoved　while　the　vast　audience　rocked　with　laughter　at　senseless　caricatures　of　supposed　English　soldiers　whose　knees　always　gave　way　at　the　sight　of　a　French　uniform。　　Even　in　the　eyes　of　her　courteous　hosts；　Joan's　quick　glance　would　occasionally　detect　a　curious　glint。　　The　fools！　　Had　they　never　heard　of　Waterloo　and　Trafalgar？　　Even　if　their　memories　might　be　excused　for　forgetting　Crecy　and　Poictiers　and　the　campaigns　of　Marlborough。　　One　eveningit　had　been　a　particularly　trying　one　for　Joanthere　stepped　upon　the　stage　a　wooden…looking　man　in　a　kilt　with　bagpipes　under　his　arm。　　How　he　had　got　himself　into　the　programme　Joan　could　not　understand。　　Managerial　watchfulness　must　have　gone　to　sleep　for　once。　　He　played　Scotch　melodies；　and　the　Parisians　liked　them；　and　when　he　had　finished　they　called　him　back。　　Joan　and　her　friends　occupied　a　box　close　to　the　stage。　　The　wooden…looking　Scot　glanced　up　at　her；　and　their　eyes　met。　　And　as　the　applause　died　down　there　rose　the　first　low　warning　strains　of　the　Pibroch。　　Joan　sat　up　in　her　chair　and　her　lips　parted。　　The　savage　music　quickened。　　It　shrilled　and　skrealed。　　The　blood　came　surging　through　her　veins。
  And　suddenly　something　lying　hidden　there　leaped　to　life　within　her　brain。　　A　mad　desire　surged　hold　of　her　to　rise　and　shout　defiance　at　those　three　thousand　pairs　of　hostile　eyes　confronting　her。　　She　clutched　at　the　arms　of　her　chair　and　so　kept　her　seat。　　The　pibroch　ended　with　its　wild　sad　notes　of　wailing；　and　slowly　the　mist　cleared　from　her　eyes；　and　the　stage　was　empty。　　A　strange　hush　had　fallen　on　the　house。
  She　was　not　aware　that　her　hostess　had　been　watching　her。　　She　was　a　sweet…faced；　white…haired　lady。　　She　touched　Joan　lightly　on　the　hand。　　〃That's　the　trouble；〃　she　whispered。　　〃It's　in　our　blood。〃
  Could　we　ever　hope　to　eradicate　it？　　Was　not　the　survival　of　this　fighting　instinct　proof　that　war　was　still　needful　to　us？　　In　the　sculpture…room　of　an　exhibition　she　came　upon　a　painted　statue　of　Bellona。　　Its　grotesqueness　shocked　her　at　first　sight；　the　red　streaming　hair；　the　wild　eyes　filled　with　fury；　the　wide　open　mouthone　could　almost　hear　it　screamingthe　white　uplifted　arms　with　outstretched　hands！　　Appalling！　　Terrible！　　And　yet；　as　she　gazed　at　it；　gradually　the　thing　grew　curiously　real　to　her。　　She　seemed　to　hear　the　gathering　of　the　chariots；　the　neighing　of　the　horses；　the　hurrying　of　many　feet；　the　sound　of　an　armouring　multitude；　the　shouting；　and　the　brayin