“Woman’s right to follow the dictates of her own heart, uncontrolled by any law,” the Human Document was insisting:  “That is one of the first things we must fight for.”

Mr. Folk was a well-known artist.  He lived in Paris.  “You are wonderfully like your mother,” he told Joan.  “In appearance, I mean,” he added.  “I knew her when she was Miss Caxton.  I acted with her in America.”

Joan made a swift effort to hide her surprise.  She had never heard of her mother having been upon the stage.

“I did not know that you had been an actor,” she answered.

“I wasn’t really,” explained Mr. Folk.  “I just walked and talked naturally.  It made rather a sensation at the time.  Your mother was a genius.  You have never thought of going on the stage yourself?”

“No,” said Joan.  “I don’t think I’ve got what you call the artistic temperament.  I have never felt drawn towards anything of that sort.”

“I wonder,” he said.  “You could hardly be your mother’s daughter without it.”

“Tell me,” said Joan.  “What was my mother like?  I can only remember her as more or less of an invalid.”

He did not reply to her question.  “Master or Mistress Eminent Artist,” he said; “intends to retire from his or her particular stage, whatever it may be.  That paragraph ought always to be put among the obituary notices.”

“What’s your line?” he asked her.  “I take it you have one by your being here.  Besides, I am sure you have.  I am an old fighter.  I can tell the young soldier.  What’s your regiment?”

Joan laughed.  “I’m a drummer boy,” she answered.  “I beat my drum each week in a Sunday newspaper, hoping the lads will follow.”

“You feel you must beat that drum,” he suggested.  “Beat it louder and louder and louder till all the world shall hear it.”

“Yes,” Joan agreed, “I think that does describe me.”

He nodded.  “I thought you were an artist,” he said.  “Don’t let them ever take your drum away from you.  You’ll go to pieces and get into mischief without it.”

“I know an old actress,” he continued.  “She’s the mother of four.  They are all on the stage and they’ve all made their mark.  The youngest was born in her dressing-room, just after the curtain had fallen.  She was playing the Nurse to your mother’s Juliet.  She is still the best Nurse that I know.  ’Jack’s always worrying me to chuck it and devote myself to the children,’ she confided to me one evening, while she was waiting for her cue.  ’But, as I tell him, I’m more helpful to them being with them half the day alive than all the day dead.’  That’s an anecdote worth remembering, when your time comes.  If God gives woman a drum he doesn’t mean man to take it away from her.  She hasn’t got to be playing it for twenty-four hours a day.  I’d like you to have seen your mother’s Cordelia.”

Flossie was tacking her way towards them.  Joan acted on impulse.  “I wish you’d give me your address,” she said “where I could write to you.  Or perhaps you would not mind my coming and seeing you one day.  I would like you to tell me more about my mother.”