“My sister is enthusiastic about your article on Chelsea Church and insists on my taking the whole series,” Greyson informed her.  “She says you have the Stevensonian touch.”

Joan flushed with pleasure.

“And you,” she asked, “did you think it had the Stevensonian touch?”

“No,” he answered, “it seemed to me to have more of your touch.”

“What’s that like?” she demanded.

“They couldn’t suppress you,” he explained.  “Sir Thomas More with his head under his arm, bloody old Bluebeard, grim Queen Bess, snarling old Swift, Pope, Addison, Carlyle—­the whole grisly crowd of them!  I could see you holding your own against them all, explaining things to them, getting excited.”  He laughed.

His sister joined them, coming in from the next room.  She had a proposal to make.  It was that Joan should take over the weekly letter from “Clorinda.”  It was supposed to give the views of a—­perhaps unusually—­sane and thoughtful woman upon the questions of the day.  Miss Greyson had hitherto conducted it herself, but was wishful as she explained to be relieved of it; so that she might have more time for home affairs.  It would necessitate Joan’s frequent attendance at the office; for there would be letters from the public to be answered, and points to be discussed with her brother.  She was standing behind his chair with her hands upon his head.  There was something strangely motherly about her whole attitude.

Greyson was surprised, for the Letter had been her own conception, and had grown into a popular feature.  But she was evidently in earnest; and Joan accepted willingly.  “Clorinda” grew younger, more self-assertive; on the whole more human.  But still so eminently “sane” and reasonable.

“We must not forget that she is quite a respectable lady, connected—­according to her own account—­with the higher political circles,” Joan’s editor would insist, with a laugh.

Miss Greyson, working in the adjoining room, would raise her head and listen.  She loved to hear him laugh.

“It’s absurd,” Flossie told her one morning, as having met by chance they were walking home together along the Embankment.  “You’re not ‘Clorinda’; you ought to be writing letters to her, not from her, waking her up, telling her to come off her perch, and find out what the earth feels like.  I’ll tell you what I’ll do:  I’ll trot you round to Carleton.  If you’re out for stirring up strife and contention, well, that’s his game, too.  He’ll use you for his beastly sordid ends.  He’d have roped in John the Baptist if he’d been running the ‘Jerusalem Star’ at the time, and have given him a daily column for so long as the boom lasted.  What’s that matter, if he’s willing to give you a start?”

Joan jibbed at first.  But in the end Flossie’s arguments prevailed.  One afternoon, a week later, she was shown into Carleton’s private room, and the door closed behind her.  The light was dim, and for a moment she could see no one; until Carleton, who had been standing near one of the windows, came forward and placed a chair for her.  And they both sat down.