embroideries. The daily struggle for bare existence, the ever-shadowing
menace of unemployment, of illness, leaving them helpless amid the
grinding forces crushing them down on every side. The ceaseless need for
courage, for cunning. For in the kingdom of the poor the tyrant and the
oppressor still sit in the high places, the robber still rides fearless.

In a noisy, flaring street, a thin-clad woman passed her, carrying a
netted bag showing two loaves. In a flash, it came to her what it must
mean to the poor; this daily bread that in comfortable homes had come to
be regarded as a thing like water; not to be considered, to be used
without stint, wasted, thrown about. Borne by those feeble, knotted
hands, Joan saw it revealed as something holy: hallowed by labour;
sanctified by suffering, by sacrifice; worshipped with fear and prayer.

In quiet streets of stately houses, she caught glimpses through
uncurtained windows of richly-laid dinner-tables about which servants
moved noiselessly, arranging flowers and silver. She wondered idly if
she would every marry. A gracious hostess, gathering around her
brilliant men and women, statesmen, writers, artists, captains of
industry: counselling them, even learning from them: encouraging shy
genius. Perhaps, in a perfectly harmless way, allowing it the
inspiration derivable from a well-regulated devotion to herself. A salon
that should be the nucleus of all those forces that influence influences,
over which she would rule with sweet and wise authority. The idea
appealed to her.

Into the picture, slightly to the background, she unconsciously placed
Greyson. His tall, thin figure with its air of distinction seemed to fit
in; Greyson would be very restful. She could see his handsome, ascetic
face flush with pleasure as, after the guests were gone, she would lean