e letters from the public to be answered, and points to
be discussed with her brother. She was standing behind his chair with
her hands upon his head. There was something strangely motherly about
her whole attitude.

Greyson was surprised, for the Letter had been her own conception, and
had grown into a popular feature. But she was evidently in earnest; and
Joan accepted willingly. "Clorinda" grew younger, more self-assertive;
on the whole more human. But still so eminently "sane" and reasonable.

"We must not forget that she is quite a respectable lady,
connected--according to her own account--with the higher political
circles," Joan's editor would insist, with a laugh.

Miss Greyson, working in the adjoining room, would raise her head and
listen. She loved to hear him laugh.

"It's absurd," Flossie told her one morning, as having met by chance they
were walking home together along the Embankment. "You're not 'Clorinda';
you ought to be writing letters to her, not from her, waking her up,
telling her to come off her perch, and find out what the earth feels
like. I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll trot you round to Carleton. If
you're out for stirring up strife and contention, well, that's his game,
too. He'll use you for his beastly sordid ends. He'd have roped in John
the Baptist if he'd been running the 'Jerusalem Star' at the time, and
have given him a daily column for so long as the boom lasted. What's
that matter, if he's willing to give you a start?"

Joan jibbed at first. But in the end Flossie's arguments prevailed. One
afternoon, a week later, she was shown into Carleton's private room, and
the door closed behind her. The light was dim, and for a moment she
could see no one; until Carleton, who had been standing near one of the
windows, came forward and placed a chair for her. And they both sat
down.

"I've glanced through some of your things," he said. "They're all right.
They're alive. What's your idea?"

Remembering Flossie's counsel, she went straight to the point. She
wanted to talk to the people. She wanted to get at them. If she had
been a man, she would have taken a chair and gone to Hyde Park. As it
was, she hadn't the nerve for Hyde Park. At least she was afraid she
hadn't. It might have to come to that. There was a trembling in her
voice that annoyed her. She was so afraid she might cry. She wasn't out
for anything crazy. She wanted only those things done that could