me."

"Why not?" she continued, with a flash of defiance, though Madge had not
spoken. "It is a weapon like any other--knowledge, intellect, courage.
God has given me beauty. I shall use it in His service."

They formed a curious physical contrast, these two women in this moment.
Joan, radiant, serene, sat upright in her chair, her head slightly thrown
back, her fine hands clasping one another so strongly that the delicate
muscles could be traced beneath the smooth white skin. Madge, with
puckered brows, leant forward in a crouching attitude, her thin nervous
hands stretched out towards the fire.

"How does one know when one is serving God?" she asked after a pause,
apparently rather of herself than of Joan. "It seems so difficult."

"One feels it," explained Joan.

"Yes, but didn't they all feel it," Madge suggested. She still seemed to
be arguing with herself rather than with Joan. "Nietzsche. I have been
reading him. They are forming a Nietzsche Society to give lectures about
him--propagate him over here. Eleanor's in it up to the neck. It seems
to me awful. Every fibre in my being revolts against him. Yet they're
all cocksure that he is the coming prophet. He must have convinced
himself that he is serving God. If I were a fighter I should feel I was
serving God trying to down Him. How do I know which of us is right?
Torquemada--Calvin," she went on, without giving Joan the chance of a
reply. "It's easy enough to see they were wrong now. But at the time
millions of people believed in them--felt it was God's voice speaking
through them. Joan of Arc! Fancy dying to put a thing like that upon a