Greyson was unable to accept the theory because of the fact that, in old age, the mind in common with the body is subject to decay.

“Perhaps by the time I am forty—­or let us say fifty,” he argued, “I shall be a bright, intelligent being.  If I die then, well and good.  I select a likely baby and go straight on.  But suppose I hang about till eighty and die a childish old gentleman with a mind all gone to seed.  What am I going to do then?  I shall have to begin all over again:  perhaps worse off than I was before.  That’s not going to help us much.”

Joan explained it to him:  that old age might be likened to an illness.  A genius lies upon a bed of sickness and babbles childish nonsense.  But with returning life he regains his power, goes on increasing it.  The mind, the soul, has not decayed.  It is the lines of communication that old age has destroyed.

“But surely you don’t believe it?” he demanded.

“Why not?” laughed Joan.  “All things are possible.  It was the possession of a hand that transformed monkeys into men.  We used to take things up, you know, and look at them, and wonder and wonder and wonder, till at last there was born a thought and the world became visible.  It is curiosity that will lead us to the next great discovery.  We must take things up; and think and think and think till one day there will come knowledge, and we shall see the universe.”

Joan always avoided getting excited when she thought of it.

“I love to make you excited,” Flossie had once confessed to her in the old student days.  “You look so ridiculously young and you are so pleased with yourself, laying down the law.”

She did not know she had given way to it.  He was leaning back in his chair, looking at her; and the tired look she had noticed in his eyes, when she had been introduced to him in the drawing-room, had gone out of them.

During the coffee, Mrs. Denton beckoned him to come to her; and Miss Greyson crossed over and took his vacant chair.  She had been sitting opposite to them.

“I’ve been hearing so much about you,” she said.  “I can’t help thinking that you ought to suit my brother’s paper.  He has all your ideas.  Have you anything that you could send him?”

Joan considered a moment.

“Nothing very startling,” she answered.  “I was thinking of a series of articles on the old London Churches—­touching upon the people connected with them and the things they stood for.  I’ve just finished the first one.”

“It ought to be the very thing,” answered Miss Greyson.  She was a thin, faded woman with a soft, plaintive voice.  “It will enable him to judge your style.  He’s particular about that.  Though I’m confident he’ll like it,” she hastened to add.  “Address it to me, will you.  I assist him as much as I can.”

Joan added a few finishing touches that evening, and posted it; and a day or two later received a note asking her to call at the office.