One day Phillips burst into a curious laugh.  They had been discussing the problem of the smallholder.  Joan had put a question to him, and with a slight start he had asked her to repeat it.  But it seemed she had forgotten it.

“I had to see our solicitor one morning,” he explained, “when I was secretary to a miners’ union up north.  A point had arisen concerning the legality of certain payments.  It was a matter of vast importance to us; but he didn’t seem to be taking any interest, and suddenly he jumped up.  ‘I’m sorry, Phillips,’ he said, ’but I’ve got a big trouble of my own on at home—­I guess you know what—­and I don’t seem to care a damn about yours.  You’d better see Delauny, if you’re in a hurry.’  And I did.”

He turned and leant over his desk.  “I guess they’ll have to find another leader if they’re in a hurry,” he added.  “I don’t seem able to think about turnips and cows.”

“Don’t make me feel I’ve interfered with your work only to spoil it,” said Joan.

“I guess I’m spoiling yours, too,” he answered.  “I’m not worth it.  I might have done something to win you and keep you.  I’m not going to do much without you.”

“You mean my friendship is going to be of no use to you?” asked Joan.

He raised his eyes and fixed them on her with a pleading, dog-like look.

“For God’s sake don’t take even that away from me,” he said.  “Unless you want me to go to pieces altogether.  A crust does just keep one alive.  One can’t help thinking what a fine, strong chap one might be if one wasn’t always hungry.”

She felt so sorry for him.  He looked such a boy, with the angry tears in his clear blue eyes, and that little childish quivering of the kind, strong, sulky mouth.

She rose and took his head between her hands and turned his face towards her.  She had meant to scold him, but changed her mind and laid his head against her breast and held it there.

He clung to her, as a troubled child might, with his arms clasped round her, and his head against her breast.  And a mist rose up before her, and strange, commanding voices seemed calling to her.

He could not see her face.  She watched it herself with dim half consciousness as it changed before her in the tawdry mirror above the mantelpiece, half longing that he might look up and see it, half terrified lest he should.

With an effort that seemed to turn her into stone, she regained command over herself.

“I must go now,” she said in a harsh voice, and he released her.

“I’m afraid I’m an awful nuisance to you,” he said.  “I get these moods at times.  You’re not angry with me?”

“No,” she answered with a smile.  “But it will hurt me if you fail.  Remember that.”

She turned down the Embankment after leaving the house.  She always found the river strong and restful.  So it was not only bad women that needed to be afraid of themselves—­even to the most high-class young woman, with letters after her name, and altruistic interests:  even to her, also, the longing for the lover’s clasp.  Flossie had been right.  Mother Nature was not to be flouted of her children—­not even of her new daughters; to them, likewise, the family trait.