Flossie ’phoned her from Paddington Station, the second day, and by luck she happened to be in.  Flossie had just come up from Devonshire.  Sam had “got through,” and she was on her way to meet him at Hull.  She had heard of Joan’s arrival in London from one of Carleton’s illustrated dailies.  She brought the paper with her.  They had used the old photograph that once had adorned each week the Sunday Post.  Joan hardly recognized herself in the serene, self-confident young woman who seemed to be looking down upon a world at her feet.  The world was strong and cruel, she had discovered; and Joans but small and weak.  One had to pretend that one was not afraid of it.

Flossie had joined every society she could hear of that was working for the League of Nations.  Her hope was that it would get itself established before young Frank grew up.

“Not that I really believe it will,” she confessed.  “A draw might have disgusted us all with fighting.  As it is, half the world is dancing at Victory balls, exhibiting captured guns on every village green, and hanging father’s helmet above the mantelpiece; while the other half is nursing its revenge.  Young Frank only cares for life because he is looking forward to one day driving a tank.  I’ve made up my mind to burn Sam’s uniform; but I expect it will end in my wrapping it up in lavender and hiding it away in a drawer.  And then there will be all the books and plays.  No self-respecting heroine, for the next ten years will dream of marrying anyone but a soldier.”

Joan laughed.  “Difficult to get anything else, just at present,” she said.  “It’s the soldiers I’m looking to for help.  I don’t think the men who have been there will want their sons to go.  It’s the women I’m afraid of.”

Flossie caught sight of the clock and jumped up.  “Who was it said that woman would be the last thing man would civilize?” she asked.

“It sounds like Meredith,” suggested Joan.  “I am not quite sure.”

“Well, he’s wrong, anyhow,” retorted Flossie.  “It’s no good our waiting for man.  He is too much afraid of us to be of any real help to us.  We shall have to do it ourselves.”  She gave Joan a hug and was gone.

Phillips was still abroad with the Army of Occupation.  He had tried to get out of it, but had not succeeded.  He held it to be gaoler’s work; and the sight of the starving populace was stirring in him a fierce anger.

He would not put up again for Parliament.  He was thinking of going back to his old work upon the Union.  “Parliament is played out,” he had written her.  “Kings and Aristocracies have served their purpose and have gone, and now the Ruling Classes, as they call themselves, must be content to hear the bell toll for them also.  Parliament was never anything more than an instrument in their hands, and never can be.  What happens?  Once in every five years you wake the people up: