the forces on which she was
relying for the regeneration of the world--all arrayed in stern demand
that the flabby, useless Mrs. Phillips should be sacrificed for the
general good. Only one voice had pleaded for foolish, helpless Mrs.
Phillips--and had conquered. The still, small voice of Pity.

CHAPTER X

Arthur sprang himself upon her a little before Christmas. He was full of
a great project. It was that she and her father should spend Christmas
with his people at Birmingham. Her father thought he would like to see
his brother; they had not often met of late, and Birmingham would be
nearer for her than Liverpool.

Joan had no intention of being lured into the Birmingham parlour. She
thought she could see in it a scheme for her gradual entanglement.
Besides, she was highly displeased. She had intended asking her father
to come to Brighton with her. As a matter of fact, she had forgotten all
about Christmas; and the idea only came into her head while explaining to
Arthur how his impulsiveness had interfered with it. Arthur,
crestfallen, suggested telegrams. It would be quite easy to alter
everything; and of course her father would rather be with her, wherever
it was. But it seemed it was too late. She ought to have been
consulted. A sudden sense of proprietorship in her father came to her
assistance and added pathos to her indignation. Of course, now, she
would have to spend Christmas alone. She was far too busy to think of
Birmingham. She could have managed Brighton. Argument founded on the
length of journey to Birmingham as compared with the journey to Brighton
she refused to be drawn into. Her feelings had been too deeply wounded
to permit of descent into detail.

But the sinner, confessing his fault, is entitled to forgiveness, and,
having put him back into his proper place, she let him kiss her hand. She
even went further and let him ask her out to dinner. As the result of
her failure to reform Mrs. Phillips she was feeling dissatisfied with
herself. It was an unpleasant sensation and somewhat new to her
experience. An evening spent in Arthur's company might do her good. The
experiment proved successful. He really was quite a dear boy. Eyeing
him thoughtfully through the smoke of her cigarette, it occurred to her
how like he was to Guido's painting of St. Sebastian; those soft, dreamy
eyes and that beautiful, almost feminine, face! There always had been a
suspicion of the sain