Joan was glad of the assistance.  Hilda produced pins.

“I always come prepared to these scrimmages,” she explained.  “I’ve got some Hazeline in my bag.  They haven’t kicked you, have they?”

“No,” laughed Joan.  “At least, I don’t think so.”

“They do sometimes,” answered Hilda, “if you happen to be in the way, near the feeding troughs.  If they’d only put all the refreshments into one room, one could avoid it.  But they will scatter them about so that one never knows for certain whether one is in the danger zone or not.  I hate a mob.”

“Why do you come?” asked Joan.

“Oh, I!” answered the girl.  “I go everywhere where there’s a chance of picking up a swell husband.  They’ve got to come to these shows, they can’t help themselves.  One never knows what incident may give one one’s opportunity.”

Joan shot a glance.  The girl was evidently serious.

“You think it would prove a useful alliance?” she suggested.

“It would help, undoubtedly,” the girl answered.  “I don’t see any other way of getting hold of them.”

Joan seated herself on one of the chairs ranged round the walls, and drew the girl down beside her.  Through the closed door, the mingled voices of the Foreign Secretary’s guests sounded curiously like the buzzing of flies.

“It’s quite easy,” said Joan, “with your beauty.  Especially if you’re not going to be particular.  But isn’t there danger of your devotion to your father leading you too far?  A marriage founded on a lie—­no matter for what purpose!—­mustn’t it degrade a woman—­smirch her soul for all time?  We have a right to give up the things that belong to ourselves, but not the things that belong to God:  our truth, our sincerity, our cleanliness of mind and body; the things that He may one day want of us.  It led you into evil once before.  Don’t think I’m judging you.  I was no better than you.  I argued just as you must have done.  Something stopped me just in time.  That was the only difference between us.”

The girl turned her dark eyes full upon Joan.  “What did stop you?” she demanded.

“Does it matter what we call it?” answered Joan.  “It was a voice.”

“It told me to do it,” answered the girl.

“Did no other voice speak to you?” asked Joan.

“Yes,” answered the girl.  “The voice of weakness.”

There came a fierce anger into the dark eyes.  “Why did you listen to it?” she demanded.  “All would have been easy if you hadn’t.”

“You mean,” answered Joan quietly, “that if I had let your mother die and had married your father, that he and I would have loved each other to the end; that I should have helped him and encouraged him in all things, so that his success would have been certain.  Is that the argument?”

“Didn’t you love him?” asked the girl, staring.  “Wouldn’t you have helped him?”