should be for the encouragement of the deserving, the
reward of virtue; more sparing of her frowns, reserving them for the
rectification of error.

At Girton it was more by force of will, of brain, that she had to make
her position. There was more competition. Joan welcomed it, as giving
more zest to life. But even there her beauty was by no means a
negligible quantity. Clever, brilliant young women, accustomed to sweep
aside all opposition with a blaze of rhetoric, found themselves to their
irritation sitting in front of her silent, not so much listening to her
as looking at her. It puzzled them for a time. Because a girl's
features are classical and her colouring attractive, surely that has
nothing to do with the value of her political views? Until one of them
discovered by chance that it has.

"Well, what does Beauty think about it?" this one had asked, laughing.
She had arrived at the end of a discussion just as Joan was leaving the
room. And then she gave a long low whistle, feeling that she had
stumbled upon the explanation. Beauty, that mysterious force that from
the date of creation has ruled the world, what does It think? Dumb,
passive, as a rule, exercising its influence unconsciously. But if it
should become intelligent, active! A Philosopher has dreamed of the vast
influence that could be exercised by a dozen sincere men acting in unity.
Suppose a dozen of the most beautiful women in the world could form
themselves into a league! Joan found them late in the evening still
discussing it.

Her mother died suddenly during her last term, and Joan hurried back to
attend the funeral. Her father was out when she reached home. Joan
changed her travel-dusty clothes, and then went into the room where her
mother lay, and closed the door. She must have been a beautiful woman.
Now that the fret and the restlessness had left her it had come back to
her. The passionate eyes were closed. Joan kissed the marble lids, and
drawing a chair to the bedside, sat down. It grieved her that she had
never loved her mother--not as one ought to love one's mother,
unquestioningly, unreasoningly, as a natural instinct. For a moment a
strange thought came to her, and swiftly, almost guiltily, she stole
across, and drawing back a corner of the blind, examined closely her own
features in the glass, comparing them with the face of the dead woman,
thus called upon to be a silent witness for or against the living. Joan
dr