me took Savonarola," thought Madge.

Mrs. Denton had risen.

"They are right to a great extent," she said to Joan. "But not all the
temple has been given over to the hucksters. You shall place your
preaching stool in some quiet corner, where the passing feet shall pause
awhile to listen."

Her going was the signal for the breaking up of the party. In a short
time Joan and Madge found themselves left with only Flossie.

"What on earth induced Helen to bring that poor old Dutch doll along with
her?" demanded Flossie. "The woman never opened her mouth all the time.
Did she tell you?"

"No," answered Madge, "but I think I can guess. She hopes--or perhaps
'fears' would be more correct--that her husband is going to join the
Cabinet, and is trying to fit herself by suddenly studying political and
social questions. For a month she's been clinging like a leech to Helen
Lavery, who takes her to meetings and gatherings. I suppose they've
struck up some sort of a bargain. It's rather pathetic."

"Good Heavens! What a tragedy for the man," commented Flossie.

"What is he like?" asked Joan.

"Not much to look at, if that's what you mean," answered Madge. "Began
life as a miner, I believe. Looks like ending as Prime Minister."

"I heard him at the Albert Hall last week," said Flossie. "He's quite
wonderful."

"In what way?" questioned Joan.

"Oh, you know," explained Flossie. "Like a volcano compressed into a
steam engine."

They discussed Joan's plans. It looked as if things were going to be
easy for her.

CHAPTER IV

Yet in the end it was Carleton who opened the door for her.

Mrs. Denton was helpful, and would have been more so, if Joan had only
understood. Mrs. Denton lived alone in an old house in Gower Street,
with a high stone hall that was always echoing to sounds that no one but
itself could ever hear. Her son had settled, it was supposed, in one of
the Colonies. No one knew what had become of him, and Mrs. Denton
herself never spoke of him; while her daughter, on whom she had centred
all her remaining hopes, had died years ago. To those who remembered the
girl, with her weak eyes and wispy ginger coloured hair, it would have
seemed comical, the idea that Joan resembled her. But Mrs. Denton's
memory had lost itself in dreams; and to her the likeness had appeared
quite wonderful. The gods had given her child back to her, grown strong
and brave and clever. Life would have a new me