any law," the Human Document was insisting: "That is one of the first
things we must fight for."

Mr. Folk was a well-known artist. He lived in Paris. "You are
wonderfully like your mother," he told Joan. "In appearance, I mean," he
added. "I knew her when she was Miss Caxton. I acted with her in
America."

Joan made a swift effort to hide her surprise. She had never heard of
her mother having been upon the stage.

"I did not know that you had been an actor," she answered.

"I wasn't really," explained Mr. Folk. "I just walked and talked
naturally. It made rather a sensation at the time. Your mother was a
genius. You have never thought of going on the stage yourself?"

"No," said Joan. "I don't think I've got what you call the artistic
temperament. I have never felt drawn towards anything of that sort."

"I wonder," he said. "You could hardly be your mother's daughter without
it."

"Tell me," said Joan. "What was my mother like? I can only remember her
as more or less of an invalid."

He did not reply to her question. "Master or Mistress Eminent Artist,"
he said; "intends to retire from his or her particular stage, whatever it
may be. That paragraph ought always to be put among the obituary
notices."