They returned home by train.  Joan insisted on travelling third class, and selected a compartment containing a stout woman and two children.  Arthur had to be at the works.  An important contract had got behindhand and they were working overtime.  She and her father dined alone.  He made her fulfil her promise to talk about herself, and she told him all she thought would interest him.  She passed lightly over her acquaintanceship with Phillips.  He would regard it as highly undesirable, she told herself, and it would trouble him.  He was reading her articles in the Sunday Post, as also her Letters from Clorinda:  and of the two preferred the latter as being less subversive of law and order.  Also he did not like seeing her photograph each week, displayed across two columns with her name beneath in one inch type.  He supposed he was old-fashioned.  She was getting rather tired of it herself.

“The Editor insisted upon it,” she explained.  “It was worth it for the opportunity it gives me.  I preach every Sunday to a congregation of over a million souls.  It’s better than being a Bishop.  Besides,” she added, “the men are just as bad.  You see their silly faces everywhere.”

“That’s like you women,” he answered with a smile.  “You pretend to be superior; and then you copy us.”

She laughed.  But the next moment she was serious.

“No, we don’t,” she said, “not those of us who think.  We know we shall never oust man from his place.  He will always be the greater.  We want to help him; that’s all.”

“But wasn’t that the Lord’s idea,” he said; “when He gave Eve to Adam to be his helpmeet?”

“Yes, that was all right,” she answered.  “He fashioned Eve for Adam and saw that Adam got her.  The ideal marriage might have been the ideal solution.  If the Lord had intended that, he should have kept the match-making in His own hands:  not have left it to man.  Somewhere in Athens there must have been the helpmeet God had made for Socrates.  When they met, it was Xanthippe that she kissed.”

A servant brought the coffee and went out again.  Her father lighted a cigar and handed her the cigarettes.

“Will it shock you, Dad?” she asked.

“Rather late in the day for you to worry yourself about that, isn’t it?” he answered with a smile.

He struck a match and held it for her.  Joan sat with her elbows on the table and smoked in silence.  She was thinking.

Why had he never “brought her up,” never exacted obedience from her, never even tried to influence her?  It could not have been mere weakness.  She stole a sidelong glance at the tired, lined face with its steel-blue eyes.  She had never seen them other than calm, but they must have been able to flash.  Why had he always been so just and kind and patient with her?  Why had he never scolded her and bullied her and teased her?  Why had he let her go away, leaving him lonely in his empty, voiceless house?  Why had he never made any claim upon her?  The idea came to her as an inspiration.  At least, it would ease her conscience.  “Why don’t you let Arthur live here,” she said, “instead of going back to his lodgings?  It would be company for you.”