He fluttered the pages.  Then flung the thing across to her.

“Look at it,” he said.  “Fountain pens—­Corn plasters—­Charitable appeals—­Motor cars—­Soaps—­Grand pianos.  It’s the girl in tights and spangles outside the show that brings them trooping in.”

“Let them see you,” he continued.  “You say you want soldiers.  Throw off your veil and call for them.  Your namesake of France!  Do you think if she had contented herself with writing stirring appeals that Orleans would have fallen?  She put on a becoming suit of armour and got upon a horse where everyone could see her.  Chivalry isn’t dead.  You modern women are ashamed of yourselves—­ashamed of your sex.  You don’t give it a chance.  Revive it.  Stir the young men’s blood.  Their souls will follow.”

He reseated himself and leant across towards her.

“I’m not talking business,” he said.  “This thing’s not going to mean much to me one way or the other.  I want you to win.  Farm labourers bringing up families on twelve and six a week.  Shirt hands working half into the night for three farthings an hour.  Stinking dens for men to live in.  Degraded women.  Half fed children.  It’s damnable.  Tell them it’s got to stop.  That the Eternal Feminine has stepped out of the poster and commands it.”

A dapper young man opened the door and put his head into the room.

“Railway smash in Yorkshire,” he announced.

Carleton sat up.  “Much of a one?” he asked.

The dapper gentleman shrugged his shoulders.  “Three killed, eight injured, so far,” he answered.

Carleton’s interest appeared to collapse.

“Stop press column?” asked the dapper gentleman.

“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Carleton.  “Unless something better turns up.”

The dapper young gentleman disappeared.  Joan had risen.

“May I talk it over with a friend?” she asked.  “Myself, I’m inclined to accept.”

“You will, if you’re in earnest,” he answered.  “I’ll give you twenty-four hours.  Look in to-morrow afternoon, and see Finch.  It will be for the Sunday Post—­the Inset.  We use surfaced paper for that and can do you justice.  Finch will arrange about the photograph.”  He held out his hand.  “Shall be seeing you again,” he said.

It was but a stone’s throw to the office of the Evening Gazette.  She caught Greyson just as he was leaving and put the thing before him.  His sister was with him.

He did not answer at first.  He was walking to and fro; and, catching his foot in the waste paper basket, he kicked it savagely out of his way, so that the contents were scattered over the room.

“Yes, he’s right,” he said.  “It was the Virgin above the altar that popularized Christianity.  Her face has always been woman’s fortune.  If she’s going to become a fighter, it will have to be her weapon.”

He had used almost the same words that Carleton had used.