“Not often,” she answered.

He was reading a letter.  “You were dining there on Friday night, weren’t you?” he asked her, without looking up.

Joan flushed.  What did he mean by cross-examining her in this way?  She was not at all used to impertinence from the opposite sex.

“Your information is quite correct,” she answered.

Her anger betrayed itself in her tone; and he shot a swift glance at her.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said.  “A mutual friend, a Mr. Airlie, happened to be of the party, and he mentioned you.”

He threw aside the letter.  “I’ll tell you what I want you to do,” he said.  “It’s nothing to object to.  Tell him that you’ve seen me and had a talk.  I understand his scheme to be that the country should grow more and more food until it eventually becomes self-supporting; and that the Government should control the distribution.  Tell him that with that I’m heart and soul in sympathy; and would like to help him.”  He pushed aside a pile of papers and, leaning across the desk, spoke with studied deliberation.  “If he can see his way to making his policy dependent upon Protection, we can work together.”

“And if he can’t?” suggested Joan.

He fixed his large, colourless eyes upon her.  “That’s where you can help him,” he answered.  “If he and I combine forces, we can pull this through in spite of the furious opposition that it is going to arouse.  Without a good Press he is helpless; and where is he going to get his Press backing if he turns me down?  From half a dozen Socialist papers whose support will do him more harm than good.  If he will bring the working class over to Protection I will undertake that the Tariff Reformers and the Agricultural Interest shall accept his Socialism.  It will be a victory for both of us.

“If he gain his end, what do the means matter?” he continued, as Joan did not answer.  “Food may be dearer; the Unions can square that by putting up wages; while the poor devil of a farm labourer will at last get fair treatment.  We can easily insist upon that.  What do you think, yourself?”

“About Protection,” she answered.  “It’s one of the few subjects I haven’t made up my mind about.”

He laughed.  “You will find all your pet reforms depend upon it, when you come to work them out,” he said.  “You can’t have a minimum wage without a minimum price.”

They had risen.

“I’ll give him your message,” said Joan.  “But I don’t see him exchanging his principles even for your support.  I admit it’s important.”

“Talk it over with him,” he said.  “And bear this in mind for your own guidance.”  He took a step forward, which brought his face quite close to hers:  “If he fails, and all his life’s work goes for nothing, I shall be sorry; but I shan’t break my heart.  He will.”

Joan dropped a note into Phillips’s letter-box on her return home, saying briefly that she wished to see him; and he sent up answer asking her if she would come to the gallery that evening, and meet him after his speech, which would be immediately following the dinner hour.