A pile of correspondence was awaiting her and, standing by the desk, she began to open and read it. Suddenly she paused, conscious that someone had entered the room and, turning, she saw Hilda. She must have left the door ajar, for she had heard no sound. The child closed the door noiselessly and came across, holding out a letter.
"Papa told me to give you this the moment you came in," she said.
Joan had not yet taken off her things. The child must have been keeping a close watch. Save for the signature it contained but one line: "I have accepted."Joan replaced the letter in its envelope, and laid it down upon the desk. Unconsciously a smile played about her lips.
The child was watching her. "I'm glad you persuaded him," she said.
Joan felt a flush mount to her face. She had forgotten Hilda for the instant.
She forced a laugh. "Oh, I only persuaded him to do what he had made up his mind to do," she explained. "It was all settled.""No, it wasn't," answered the child. "Most of them were against it. And then there was Mama," she added in a lower tone.
"What do you mean," asked Joan. "Didn't she wish it?"The child raised her eyes. There was a dull anger in them. "Oh, what's the good of pretending," she said. "He's so great. He could be the Prime Minister of England if he chose. But then he would have to visit kings and nobles, and receive them at his house, and Mama--" She broke off with a passionate gesture of the small thin hands.
Joan was puzzled what to say. She knew exactly what she ought to say: what she would have said to any ordinary child. But to say it to this uncannily knowing little creature did not promise much good.
"Who told you I persuaded him?" she asked.
"Nobody," answered the child. "I knew."
Joan seated herself, and drew the child towards her.
"It isn't as terrible as you think," she said. "Many men who have risen and taken a high place in the world were married to kind, good women unable to share their greatness. There was Shakespeare, you know, who married Anne Hathaway and had a clever daughter. She was just a nice, homely body a few years older than himself. And he seems to have been very fond of her; and was always running down to Stratford to be with her.""Yes, but he didn't bring her up to London," answered the child.
"Mama would have wanted to come; and Papa would have let her, and wouldn't have gone to see Queen Elizabeth unless she had been invited too."Joan wished she had not mentioned Shakespeare. There had surely been others; men who had climbed up and carried their impossible wives with them. But she couldn't think of one, just then.
"We must help her," she answered somewhat lamely. "She's anxious to learn, I know."The child shook her head. "She doesn't understand," she said.
"And Papa won't tell her. He says it would only hurt her and do no good." The small hands were clenched. "I shall hate her if she spoils his life."The atmosphere was becoming tragic. Joan felt the need of escaping from it. She sprang up.
"Oh, don't be nonsensical," she said. "Your father isn't the only man married to a woman not as clever as himself. He isn't going to let that stop him. And your mother's going to learn to be the wife of a great man and do the best she can. And if they don't like her they've got to put up with her. I shall talk to the both of them."A wave of motherliness towards the entire Phillips family passed over her. It included Hilda. She caught the child to her and gave her a hug. "You go back to school," she said, "and get on as fast as you can, so that you'll be able to be useful to him."The child flung her arms about her. "You're so beautiful and wonderful," she said. "You can do anything. I'm so glad you came."Joan laughed. It was surprising how easily the problem had been solved. She would take Mrs. Phillips in hand at once. At all events she should be wholesome and unobtrusive. It would be a delicate mission, but Joan felt sure of her own tact. She could see his boyish eyes turned upon her with wonder and gratitude.
"I was so afraid you would not be back before I went," said the child. "I ought to have gone this afternoon, but Papa let me stay till the evening.""You will help?" she added, fixing on Joan her great, grave eyes.
Joan promised, and the child went out. She looked pretty when she smiled. She closed the door behind her noiselessly.
It occurred to Joan that she would like to talk matters over with Greyson. There was "Clorinda's" attitude to be decided upon; and she was interested to know what view he himself would take. Of course he would be on P-'s side. The Evening Gazette had always supported the "gas and water school" of socialism; and to include the people's food was surely only an extension of the principle.
She rang him up and Miss Greyson answered, asking her to come round to dinner: they would be alone. And she agreed.
The Greysons lived in a small house squeezed into an angle of the Outer Circle, overlooking Regent's Park. It was charmingly furnished, chiefly with old Chippendale. The drawing-room made quite a picture. It was home-like and restful with its faded colouring, and absence of all show and overcrowding. They sat there after dinner and discussed Joan's news. Miss Greyson was repairing a piece of old embroidery she had brought back with her from Italy; and Greyson sat smoking, with his hands behind his head, and his long legs stretched out towards the fire.
"Carleton will want him to make his food policy include Tariff Reform," he said. "If he prove pliable, and is willing to throw over his free trade principles, all well and good.""What's Carleton got to do with it?" demanded Joan with a note of indignation.
He turned his head towards her with an amused raising of the eyebrows. "Carleton owns two London dailies," he answered, "and is in treaty for a third: together with a dozen others scattered about the provinces. Most politicians find themselves, sooner or later, convinced by his arguments. Phillips may prove the exception.""It would be rather interesting, a fight between them," said Joan.
"Myself I should back Phillips."