It was utterly illogical; but her interest in the principles of Social Democracy was gone.

A very little while ago, Mr. Airlie, in his capacity of second cousin to one of the ladies concerned, a charming girl but impulsive, had been called upon to attend a family council of a painful nature.  The gentleman’s name took Joan’s breath away:  it was the name of one of her heroes, an eminent writer:  one might almost say prophet.  She had hitherto read his books with grateful reverence.  They pictured for her the world made perfect; and explained to her just precisely how it was to be accomplished.  But, as far as his own particular corner of it was concerned, he seemed to have made a sad mess of it.  Human nature of quite an old-fashioned pattern had crept in and spoilt all his own theories.

Of course it was unreasonable.  The sign-post may remain embedded in weeds:  it notwithstanding points the way to the fair city.  She told herself this, but it left her still short-tempered.  She didn’t care which way it pointed.  She didn’t believe there was any fair city.

There was a famous preacher.  He lived the simple life in a small house in Battersea, and consecrated all his energies to the service of the poor.  Almost, by his unselfish zeal, he had persuaded Joan of the usefulness of the church.  Mr. Airlie frequently visited him.  They interested one another.  What struck Mr. Airlie most was the self-sacrificing devotion with which the reverend gentleman’s wife and family surrounded him.  It was beautiful to see.  The calls upon his moderate purse, necessitated by his wide-spread and much paragraphed activities, left but a narrow margin for domestic expenses:  with the result that often the only fire in the house blazed brightly in the study where Mr. Airlie and the reverend gentleman sat talking:  while mother and children warmed themselves with sense of duty in the cheerless kitchen.  And often, as Mr. Airlie, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, had convinced himself, the only evening meal that resources would permit was the satisfying supper for one brought by the youngest daughter to her father where he sat alone in the small dining-room.

Mr. Airlie, picking daintily at his food, continued his stories:  of philanthropists who paid starvation wages:  of feminists who were a holy terror to their women folk:  of socialists who travelled first-class and spent their winters in Egypt or Monaco:  of stern critics of public morals who preferred the society of youthful affinities to the continued company of elderly wives:  of poets who wrote divinely about babies’ feet and whose children hated them.

“Do you think it’s all true?” Joan whispered to her host.

He shrugged his shoulders.  “No reason why it shouldn’t be,” he said.  “I’ve generally found him right.”

“I’ve never been able myself,” he continued, “to understand the Lord’s enthusiasm for David.  I suppose it was the Psalms that did it.”