From a dismal side street there darted past her a small, shapeless figure in crumpled cap and apron:  evidently a member of that lazy, over-indulged class, the domestic servant.  Judging from the talk of the drawing-rooms, the correspondence in the papers, a singularly unsatisfactory body.  They toiled not, lived in luxury and demanded grand pianos.  Someone had proposed doing something for them.  They themselves—­it seemed that even they had a sort of conscience—­were up in arms against it.  Too much kindness even they themselves perceived was bad for them.  They were holding a meeting that night to explain how contented they were.  Six peeresses had consented to attend, and speak for them.

Likely enough that there were good-for-nothing, cockered menials imposing upon incompetent mistresses.  There were pampered slaves in Rome.  But these others.  These poor little helpless sluts.  There were thousands such in every city, over-worked and under-fed, living lonely, pleasureless lives.  They must be taught to speak in other voices than the dulcet tones of peeresses.  By the light of the guttering candles, from their chill attics, they should write to her their ill-spelt visions.

She had reached a quiet, tree-bordered road, surrounding a great park.  Lovers, furtively holding hands, passed her by, whispering.

She would write books.  She would choose for her heroine a woman of the people.  How full of drama, of tragedy must be their stories:  their problems the grim realities of life, not only its mere sentimental embroideries.  The daily struggle for bare existence, the ever-shadowing menace of unemployment, of illness, leaving them helpless amid the grinding forces crushing them down on every side.  The ceaseless need for courage, for cunning.  For in the kingdom of the poor the tyrant and the oppressor still sit in the high places, the robber still rides fearless.

In a noisy, flaring street, a thin-clad woman passed her, carrying a netted bag showing two loaves.  In a flash, it came to her what it must mean to the poor; this daily bread that in comfortable homes had come to be regarded as a thing like water; not to be considered, to be used without stint, wasted, thrown about.  Borne by those feeble, knotted hands, Joan saw it revealed as something holy:  hallowed by labour; sanctified by suffering, by sacrifice; worshipped with fear and prayer.

In quiet streets of stately houses, she caught glimpses through uncurtained windows of richly-laid dinner-tables about which servants moved noiselessly, arranging flowers and silver.  She wondered idly if she would every marry.  A gracious hostess, gathering around her brilliant men and women, statesmen, writers, artists, captains of industry:  counselling them, even learning from them:  encouraging shy genius.  Perhaps, in a perfectly harmless way, allowing it the inspiration derivable from a well-regulated devotion to herself.  A salon that should be the nucleus of all those forces that influence influences, over which she would rule with sweet and wise authority.  The idea appealed to her.