She was sitting in front of the fire in a high-backed chair.  She never cared to loll, and the shaded light from the electric sconces upon the mantelpiece illumined her.

“If the world were properly stage-managed, that’s what you ought to be,” he said, “the wife of a Prime Minister.  I can see you giving such an excellent performance.”

“I must talk to Mary,” he added, “see if we can’t get you off on some promising young Under Secretary.”

“Don’t give me ideas above my station,” laughed Joan.  “I’m a journalist.”

“That’s the pity of it,” he said.  “You’re wasting the most important thing about you, your personality.  You would do more good in a drawing-room, influencing the rulers, than you will ever do hiding behind a pen.  It was the drawing-room that made the French Revolution.”

The firelight played about her hair.  “I suppose every woman dreams of reviving the old French Salon,” she answered.  “They must have been gloriously interesting.”  He was leaning forward with clasped hands.  “Why shouldn’t she?” he said.  “The reason that our drawing-rooms have ceased to lead is that our beautiful women are generally frivolous and our clever women unfeminine.  What we are waiting for is an English Madame Roland.”

Joan laughed.  “Perhaps I shall some day,” she answered.

He insisted on seeing her as far as the bus.  It was a soft, mild night; and they walked round the Circle to Gloucester Gate.  He thought there would be more room in the buses at that point.

“I wish you would come oftener,” he said.  “Mary has taken such a liking to you.  If you care to meet people, we can always whip up somebody of interest.”

She promised that she would.  She always felt curiously at home with the Greysons.

They were passing the long sweep of Chester Terrace.  “I like this neighbourhood with its early Victorian atmosphere,” she said.  “It always makes me feel quiet and good.  I don’t know why.”

“I like the houses, too,” he said.  “There’s a character about them.  You don’t often find such fine drawing-rooms in London.”

“Don’t forget your promise,” he reminded her, when they parted.  “I shall tell Mary she may write to you.”

She met Carleton by chance a day or two later, as she was entering the office.  “I want to see you,” he said; and took her up with him into his room.

“We must stir the people up about this food business,” he said, plunging at once into his subject.  “Phillips is quite right.  It overshadows everything.  We must make the country self-supporting.  It can be done and must.  If a war were to be sprung upon us we could be starved out in a month.  Our navy, in face of these new submarines, is no longer able to secure us.  France is working day and night upon them.  It may be a bogey, or it may not.  If it isn’t, she would have us at her mercy; and it’s too big a risk to run.  You live in the same house with him, don’t you?  Do you often see him?”