They walked together back to Westminster and wished each other a short good-night upon what once had been their common doorstep.  With her latchkey in her hand, she turned and watched his retreating figure, and suddenly a wave of longing seized her to run after him and call him back—­to see his eyes light up and feel the pressure of his hands.  It was only by clinging to the railings and counting till she was sure he had entered his own house round the corner and closed the door behind him, that she restrained herself.

It was a frightened face that looked at her out of the glass, as she stood before it taking off her hat.

She decided that their future meetings should be at his own house.  Mrs. Phillips’s only complaint was that she knocked at the door too seldom.

“I don’t know what I should do without you, I really don’t,” confessed the grateful lady.  “If ever I become a Prime Minister’s wife, it’s you I shall have to thank.  You’ve got so much courage yourself, you can put the heart into him.  I never had any pluck to spare myself.”

She concluded by giving Joan a hug, accompanied by a sloppy but heartfelt kiss.

She would stand behind Phillips’s chair with her fat arms round his neck, nodding her approval and encouragement; while Joan, seated opposite, would strain every nerve to keep her brain fixed upon the argument, never daring to look at poor Phillips’s wretched face, with its pleading, apologetic eyes, lest she should burst into hysterical laughter.  She hoped she was being helpful and inspiring!  Mrs. Phillips would assure her afterwards that she had been wonderful.  As for herself, there were periods when she hadn’t the faintest idea about what she was talking.

Sometimes Mrs. Phillips, called away by domestic duty, would leave them; returning full of excuses just as they had succeeded in forgetting her.  It was evident she was under the impression that her presence was useful to them, making it easier for them to open up their minds to one another.

“Don’t you be put off by his seeming a bit unresponsive,” Mrs. Phillips would explain.  “He’s shy with women.  What I’m trying to do is to make him feel you are one of the family.”

“And don’t you take any notice of me,” further explained the good woman, “when I seem to be in opposition, like.  I chip in now and then on purpose, just to keep the ball rolling.  It stirs him up, a bit of contradictoriness.  You have to live with a man before you understand him.”

One morning Joan received a letter from Phillips, marked immediate.  He informed her that his brain was becoming addled.  He intended that afternoon to give it a draught of fresh air.  He would be at the Robin Hood gate in Richmond Park at three o’clock.  Perhaps the gods would be good to him.  He would wait there for half an hour to give them a chance, anyway.

She slipped the letter unconsciously into the bosom of her dress, and sat looking out of the window.  It promised to be a glorious day, and London was stifling and gritty.  Surely no one but an unwholesome-minded prude could jib at a walk across a park.  Mrs. Phillips would be delighted to hear that she had gone.  For the matter of that, she would tell her—­when next they met.