“You must not think,” said Miss Ford, “that because I am a practical worker I have no understanding of Inner Meanings.  On the contrary, I have perhaps wasted too much of my time on spiritual matters.  That is why I take quite a personal and special interest in your case.  I had a great friend, now in the trenches, alas, who possessed Power.  He used to come to my Wednesdays—­at least I used to invite him to come, but he was dreamy like you and constantly mistook the date.  He helped me enormously, and I miss him....  Well, the truest charity should be anything but formal, I think, and I saw at a glance that your case was exceptional, and that you also were Occult——­”

“How d’you mean—­occult?” asked the witch.  “Do you mean just knowing magic?”

“A strange mixture,” mused Miss Ford self-consciously.  It is impossible to muse aloud without self-consciousness.  “A strange and rather interesting mixture of naivete and power.  The question is—­power to what extent?  Miss Watkins, I want you to come to one of my Wednesdays to meet one or two people who might possibly help you to a job—­lecturing, you know.  Lectures on hypnotism or spiritualism, with experiments, are always popular.  You certainly have Power, you only want a little advertisement to be a real help to many people.”

“How d’you mean—­advertisement?” asked the witch.  “This new advertisement stunt is one of the problems that tire my head.  I am awfully worried by problems.  The world seems to be ruled by posters now.  People look to the hoardings for information about their duty.  Why don’t we paste up the ten commandments on all the walls and all the ’buses, and be done with it?”

“Now listen, Miss Watkins,” persisted Miss Ford.  “I want you to meet Bernard Tovey, the painter, and Ivy MacBee, who founded the Aspiration Club, and Frere, the editor of I Wonder, and several other regular Wednesday friends of mine, all interested in the Occult.  It would be a real opportunity for you.”

“I am afraid you will be very angry with me,” said the witch presently in a hollow voice.  “If I was occult last night—­I’m awfully sorry, but it must have been a fluke.  I seem to have said so much last night without knowing it.  I’m afraid I was showing off a little.”

The painful tears of confession were in her eyes, but she added, changing the subject:  “Do you live alone?”

“Yes, absolutely,” said Miss Ford.  “My friends call me a perfect hermit.  I hardly ever have visitors in my spare room, it makes so much work for my three maids.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t care to divorce your three maids and come and live here,” suggested the witch.  “I could of course cure you of the nerve-storms you speak of.  Or rather I could help you to have nerve-storms all the time, without any stagnant grown-upness in between.  Then you wouldn’t notice the nerve-storms.  This house is a sort of nursing home and college combined.  I’ll read you the prospectus.”