He referred to the matter again the same evening in the library while
Lady William slept peacefully in the blue drawing-room; but as it
appeared necessary that the compact should be sealed by a knightly kiss
Joan had failed to ratify it.

She blamed herself on her way home. The poor old gentleman could easily
have been kept in his place. The suffering of an occasional harmless
caress would have purchased for her power and opportunity. Had it not
been somewhat selfish of her? Should she write to him--see him again?

She knew that she never would. It was something apart from her reason.
It would not even listen to her. It bade or forbade as if one were a
child without any right to a will of one's own. It was decidedly
exasperating.

There were others. There were the editors who frankly told her that the
business of a newspaper was to write what its customers wanted to read;
and that the public, so far as they could judge, was just about fed up
with plans for New Jerusalems at their expense. And the editors who were
prepared to take up any number of reforms, insisting only that they
should be new and original and promise popularity.

And then she met Greyson.

It was at a lunch given by Mrs. Denton. Greyson was a bachelor and lived
with an unmarried sister, a few years older than himself. He was editor
and part proprietor of an evening paper. It had ideals and was, in
consequence, regarded by the general public with suspicion; but by reason
of sincerity and braininess was rapidly becoming a power. He was a shy,
reserved man with an aristocratic head set upon stooping shoulders. The