ful as
Christ was powerful; not as Caesar was powerful--powerful as those who
have suffered and have failed, leaders of forlorn hopes--powerful as
those who have struggled on, despised and vilified; not as those of whom
all men speak well--powerful as those who have fought lone battles and
have died, not knowing their own victory. It is those that serve, not
those that rule, shall conquer."

Joan had never known him quite so serious. Generally there was a touch
of irony in his talk, a suggestion of aloofness that had often irritated
her.

"I wish you would always be yourself, as you are now," she said, "and
never pose."

"Do I pose?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"That shows how far it has gone," she told him, "that you don't even know
it. You pretend to be a philosopher. But you're really a man."

He laughed. "It isn't always a pose," he explained. "It's some men's
way of saying: Thy will be done."

"Ask Phillips to come and see me," he said. "I can be of more help, if I
know exactly his views."

He walked with her to the bus. They passed a corner house that he had
more than once pointed out to her. It had belonged, years ago, to a well-
known artist, who had worked out a wonderful scheme of decoration in the
drawing-room. A board was up, announcing that the house was for sale. A
gas lamp, exactly opposite, threw a flood of light upon the huge white
lettering.

Joan stopped. "Why, it's the house you are always talking about," she
said. "Are you thinking of taking it?"

"I did go over it," he answered. "But it would be rather absurd for just
Mary and me."

She looked up Phillips at the House, and gave him Greyson's message. He
had just returned from Folkestone, and was worried.

"She was so much better last week," he explained. "But it never lasts."

"Poor old girl!" he added. "I believe she'd have been happier if I'd
always remained plain Bob Phillips."

Joan had promised to go down on the Friday; but finding, on the Thursday
morning, that it would be difficult, decided to run down that afternoon
instead. She thought at first of sending a wire. But in Mrs. Phillips's
state of health, telegrams were perhaps to be avoided. It could make no
difference. The front door of the little house was standing half open.
She called down the kitchen stairs to the landlady, but received no
answer. The woman had probably run out on some short errand. She went
up the stairs softly. The bedroom