The contract was concluded in Mr. Krebs’ private office:  a very stout gentleman with a very thin voice, whose dream had always been to one day be of service to the renowned Mr. Robert Phillips.  He was clearly under the impression that he had now accomplished it.  Even as Mrs. Phillips took up the pen to sign, the wild idea occurred to Joan of snatching the paper away from her, hustling her into a cab, and in some quiet street or square making the woman see for herself that she was a useless fool; that the glowing dreams and fancies she had cherished in her silly head for fifteen years must all be given up; that she must stand aside, knowing herself of no account.

It could be done.  She felt it.  If only one could summon up the needful brutality.  If only one could stifle that still, small voice of Pity.

Mrs. Phillips signed amid splutterings and blots.  Joan added her signature as witness.

She did effect an improvement in the poor lady’s dress.  On Madge’s advice she took her to a voluble little woman in the Earl’s Court Road who was struck at once by Madame Phillips’s remarkable resemblance to the Baroness von Stein.  Had not Joan noticed it?  Whatever suited the Baroness von Stein—­allowed by common consent to be one of the best-dressed women in London—­was bound to show up Madame Phillips to equal advantage.  By curious coincidence a costume for the Baroness had been put in hand only the day before.  It was sent for and pinned upon the delighted Madame Phillips.  Perfection!  As the Baroness herself would always say:  “My frock must be a framework for my personality.  It must never obtrude.”  The supremely well-dressed woman!  One never notices what she has on:  that is the test.  It seemed it was what Mrs. Phillips had always felt herself.  Joan could have kissed the voluble, emphatic little woman.

But the dyed hair and the paint put up a fight for themselves.

“I want you to do something very brave,” said Joan.  She had invited herself to tea with Mrs. Phillips, and they were alone in the small white-panelled room that they were soon to say good-bye to.  The new house would be ready at Christmas.  “It will be a little hard at first,” continued Joan, “but afterwards you will be glad that you have done it.  It is a duty you owe to your position as the wife of a great leader of the people.”

The firelight showed to Joan a comically frightened face, with round, staring eyes and an open mouth.

“What is it you want me to do?” she faltered

“I want you to be just yourself,” said Joan; “a kind, good woman of the people, who will win their respect, and set them an example.”  She moved across and seating herself on the arm of Mrs. Phillips’s chair, touched lightly with her hand the flaxen hair and the rouged cheek.  “I want you to get rid of all this,” she whispered.  “It isn’t worthy of you.  Leave it to the silly dolls and the bad women.”