with her hands clasped round his neck. He was not really intolerant and
stupid. That had been proved by his letting her go to a Church of
England school. Her mother had expressed no wish. It was he who had
selected it.

Of her mother she had always stood somewhat in fear, never knowing when
the mood of passionate affection would give place to a chill aversion
that seemed almost like hate. Perhaps it had been good for her, so she
told herself in after years, her lonely, unguided childhood. It had
forced her to think and act for herself. At school she reaped the
benefit. Self-reliant, confident, original, leadership was granted to
her as a natural prerogative. Nature had helped her. Nowhere does a
young girl rule more supremely by reason of her beauty than among her
fellows. Joan soon grew accustomed to having her boots put on and taken
off for her; all her needs of service anticipated by eager slaves,
contending with one another for the privilege. By giving a command, by
bestowing a few moments of her conversation, it was within her power to
make some small adoring girl absurdly happy for the rest of the day;
while her displeasure would result in tears, in fawning pleadings for
forgiveness. The homage did not spoil her. Rather it helped to develop
her. She accepted it from the beginning as in the order of things. Power
had been given to her. It was her duty to see to it that she did not use
it capriciously, for her own gratification. No conscientious youthful
queen could have been more careful in the distribution of her
favours--that they should be for the encouragement of the deserving, the
reward of virtue; more sparing of her frowns, reserving them for the
rectification of error.

At Girton it was more by force of will, of brain, that she had to make
her position. There was more competition. Joan welcomed it, as giving