d　a　brush　into　one　of　the　compartments　and　then　remained　with　it　in　her　hand；　as　if　hesitating。　　Suddenly　she　stuck　out　her　tongue　and　passed　the　brush　over　it。　　At　least；　so　it　seemed　to　Joan。　　It　was　only　a　side　view　of　Mrs。　Phillips's　face　that　she　was　obtaining；　and　she　may　have　been　mistaken。　　It　might　have　been　the　lips。　　The　woman　gave　a　little　gasp　and　sat　still　for　a　moment。　　Then；　putting　away　the　brush；　she　closed　the　box　and　slipped　it　under　the　pillow。
  Joan　felt　her　knees　trembling。　　A　cold；　creeping　fear　was　taking　possession　of　her。　　Why；　she　could　not　understand。　　She　must　have　been　mistaken。　　People　don't　make…up　their　tongues。　　It　must　have　been　the　lips。　　And　even　if　notif　the　woman　had　licked　the　brush！　It　was　a　silly　trick　people　do。　　Perhaps　she　liked　the　taste。　　She　pulled　herself　together　and　tapped　at　the　door。
  Mrs。　Phillips　gave　a　little　start　at　seeing　her；　but　was　glad　that　she　had　come。　　Phillips　had　not　been　down　for　two　days　and　she　had　been　feeling　lonesome。　　She　persisted　in　talking　more　than　Joan　felt　was　good　for　her。　　She　was　feeling　so　much　better；　she　explained。　　Joan　was　relieved　when　the　nurse　came　back　from　her　walk　and　insisted　on　her　lying　down。　　She　dropped　to　sleep　while　Joan　and　the　nurse　were　having　their　tea。
  Joan　went　back　by　the　early　train。　　She　met　some　people　at　the　station　that　she　knew　and　travelled　up　with　them。　　That　picture　of　Mrs。　Phillips's　tongue　just　showing　beyond　the　line　of　Mrs。　Phillips's　cheek　remained　at　the　back　of　her　mind；　but　it　was　not　until　she　was　alone　in　her　own　rooms　that　she　dared　let　her　thoughts　return　to　it。
  The　suggestion　that　was　forcing　itself　into　her　brain　was　monstrousunthinkable。　　That；　never　possessed　of　any　surplus　vitality；　and　suffering　from　the　added　lassitude　of　illness；　the　woman　should　have　become　indifferentwilling　to　let　a　life　that　to　her　was　full　of　fears　and　difficulties　slip　peacefully　away　from　her；　that　was　possible。　　But　that　she　should　exercise　thought　and　ingenuitythat　she　should　have　reasoned　the　thing　out　and　deliberately　laid　her　plans；　calculating　at　every　point　on　their　success；　it　was　inconceivable。
  Besides；　what　could　have　put　the　idea　into　her　head？　　It　was　laughable；　the　presumption　that　she　was　a　finished　actress；　capable　of　deceiving　everyone　about　her。　　If　she　had　had　an　inkling　of　the　truth；　Joan；　with　every　nerve　on　the　alert；　almost　hoping　for　it；　would　have　detected　it。　　She　had　talked　with　her　alone　the　day　before　she　had　left　England；　and　the　woman　had　been　full　of　hopes　and　projects　for　the　future。
  That　picture　of　Mrs。　Phillips；　propped　up　against　the　pillows；　with　her　make…up　box　upon　her　knees　was　still　before　her　when　she　went　to　bed。　　All　night　long　it　haunted　her：　　whether　thinking　or　dreaming　of　it；　she　could　not　tell。
  Suddenly；　she　sat　up　with　a　stifled　cry。　　It　seemed　as　if　a　flash　of　light　had　been　turned　upon　her；　almost　blinding　her。
  Hilda！　　Why　had　she　never　thought　of　it？　　The　whole　thing　was　so　obvious。　　〃You　ought　not　to　think　about　yourself。　　You　ought　to　think　only　of　him　and　of　his　work。　　Nothing　else　matters。〃　　If　she　could　say　that　to　Joan；　what　might　she　not　have　said　to　her　mother　who；　so　clearly；　she　divined　to　be　the　incubusthe　drag　upon　her　father's　career？　　She　could　hear　the　child's　dry；　passionate　tones…　…could　see　Mrs。　Phillips's　flabby　cheeks　grow　whitethe　frightened；　staring　eyes。　　Where　her　father　was　concerned　the　child　had　neither　conscience　nor　compassion。　　She　had　waited　her　time。　It　was　a　few　days　after　Hilda's　return　to　school　that　Mrs。　Phillips　had　been　first　taken　ill。
  She　flung　herself　from　the　bed　and　drew　the　blind。　　A　chill；　grey　light　penetrated　the　room。　　It　was　a　little　before　five。　　She　would　go　round　to　Phillips；　wake　him　up。　　He　must　be　told。
  With　her　hat　in　her　hands；　she　paused。　　No。　　That　would　not　do。　Phillips　must　never　know。　　They　must　keep　the　secret　to　themselves。　She　would　go　down　and　see　the　woman；　reason　with　her；　insist。　　She　went　into　the　other　room。　　It　was　lighter　there。　　The　〃A。B。C。〃　was　standing　in　its　usual　place　upon　her　desk。　　There　was　a　train　to　Folkestone　at　six…fifteen。　　She　had　plenty　of　time。　　It　would　be　wise　to　have　a　cup　of　tea　and　something　to　eat。　　There　would　be　no　sense　in　arriving　there　with　a　headache。　　She　would　want　her　brain　clear。
  It　was　half…past　five　when　she　sat　down　with　her　tea　in　front　of　her。　　It　was　only　ten　minutes'　walk　to　Charing　Crosssay　a　quarter　of　an　hour。　　She　might　pick　up　a　cab。　　She　grew　calmer　as　she　ate　and　drank。　　Her　reason　seemed　to　be　returning　to　her。　　There　was　no　such　violent　hurry。　　Hadn't　she　better　think　things　over；　in　the　clear　daylight？　　The　woman　had　been　ill　now　for　nearly　six　weeks：　a　few　hoursa　day　or　twocould　make　no　difference。　　It　might　alarm　the　poor　creature；　her　unexpected　appearance　at　such　an　unusual　hourcause　a　relapse。　　Suppose　she　had　been　mistaken？　Hadn't　she　better　make　a　few　inquiries　firstfeel　her　way？　　One　did　harm　more　often　than　good；　acting　on　impulse。　　After　all；　had　she　the　right　to　interfere？　　Oughtn't　the　thing　to　be　thought　over　as　a　whole？　　Mightn't　there　be　arguments；　worth　considering；　against　her　interference？　　Her　brain　was　too　much　in　a　whirl。　Hadn't　she　better　wait　till　she　could　collect　and　arrange　her　thoughts？
  The　silver　clock　upon　her　desk　struck　six。　　It　had　been　a　gift　from　her　father　when　she　was　at　Girton。　　It　never　obtruded。　　Its　voice　was　a　faint　musical　chime　that　she　need　not　hear　unless　she　cared　to　listen。　　She　turned　and　looked　at　it。　　It　seemed　to　be　a　little　face　looking　back　at　her　out　of　its　two　round；　blinkless　eyes。　　For　the　first　time　during　all　the　years　that　it　had　watched　beside　her；　she　heard　its　quick；　impatient　tick。
  She　sat　motionless；　staring　at　it。　　The　problem；　in　some　way；　had　simplified　itself　into　a　contest　between　herself；　demanding　time　to　think；　and　the　little　insistent　clock；　shouting　to　her　to　act　upon　blind　impulse。　　If　she　could　remain　motionless　for　another　five　minutes；　she　would　have　won。
  The　ticking　of　the　little　clock　was　filling　the　room。　　The　thing　seemed　to　have　become　aliveto　be　threatening　to　burst　its　heart。　But　the　thin；　delicate　indicator　moved　on。
  Suddenly　its　ticking　ceased。　　It　had　become　again　a　piece　of　lifeless　mechanism。　　The　hands　pointed　to　six　minutes　past。　　Joan　took　off　her　hat　and　laid　it　aside。
  She　must　think　the　whole　thing　over　quietly。
  CHAPTER　XIV
  She　could　help　him。　　Without　her；　he　would　fail。　　The　woman　herself　saw　that；　and　wished　it。　　Why　should　she　hesitate？　　It　was　not　as　if　she　had　only　herself　to　consider。　　The　fatethe　happiness　of　millions　was　at　stake。　　He　looked　to　her　for　aidfor　guidance。　　It　must　have　been　intended。　　All　roads　had　led　to　it。　　Her　going　to　the　house。　　She　remembered　now；　it　was　the　first　door　at　which　she　had　knocked。　　Her　footsteps　had　surely　been　directed。　　Her　meeting　with　Mrs。　Phillips　in　Madge's　rooms；　and　that　invitation　to　dinner；　coinciding　with　that　crisis　in　his　life。　　It　was　she　who　had　persuaded　him　to　accept。　　But　for　her　he　would　have　doubted；　wavered；　let　his　opportunities　slip　by。　　He　had　confessed　it　to　her。
  And　she　had　promised　him。　　He　needed　her。　　The　words　she　had　spoken　to　Madge；　not　dreaming　then　of　their　swift　application。　　They　came　back　to　her。　　〃God　has　called　me。　　He　girded　His　sword　upon　me。〃　What　right　had　she　to　leave　it　rusting　in　its　scabbard；　turning　aside　from　the　pathway　pointed　out　to　her　because　of　one　weak；　useless　life；　crouching　in　her　way。　　It　was　not　as　if　she　were　being　asked　to　do　evil　herself　that　good　might　come。　　The　decision　had　been　taken　out　of　her　hands。　　All　she　had　to　do　was　to　remain　quiescent；　not　interfering；　awaiting　her　orders。　　Her　business　was　with　her　own　part；　not　with　another's。　　To　be　willing　to　sacrifice　oneself：　　that　was　at　the　root　of　all　service。　　Sometimes　it　was　one's　own　duty；　sometimes　that　of　another。　　Must　one　never　go　forward　because　another　steps　out　of　one's　way；　voluntarily？　Besides；　she　might　have　been　mistaken。　　That　picture；　ever　before　her；　of　the　woman　pausing　with　the　brush　above　her　tonguethat　little　stilled　gasp！　　It　may　have　been　but　a　phantasm；　born　of　her　own　fevered　imagination。　　She　clung　to　that；　desperately。
  It　was　the　task　that　had　been　entrusted　to　her。　　How　could　he　hope　to　succeed　without　her。　　With　her；　he　would　be　all　powerful　accomplish　the　end　for　which　he　had　been　sent　into　the　world。　Society　counts　for　so　much　in　England。　　What　public　man　had　ever　won　through　without　its　assistance。　　As　Greyson　had　said：　　it　is　the　dinner…table　that　rules。　　She　could　win　it　over　to　his　side。　That　mission　to　Paris　that　she　had　undertaken　for　Mrs。　Denton；　that　had　brought　her　into　contact　with　diplomatists；　politicians；　the　leaders　and　the　rulers；　the　bearers　of　names　known　and　honoured　in　history。　　They　had　accepted　her　as　one　of　themselves。　　She　had　influenced　them；　swayed　them。　　That　afternoon　at　Folk's　studio；　where　all　eyes　had　followed　her；　where　famous　men　and　women　had　waited　to　attract　her　notice；　had　hung　upon　her　words。　　Even　at　school；　at　college；　she　had　always　commanded　willing　homage。　　As　Greyson　had　once　told　her；　it　was　herselfher　personality　that　was　her　greatest　asset。　　Was　it　to　be　utterl