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The old lady had tired herself。 Joan undertook the mission。 She thought she would rather enjoy it； and Mrs。 Denton promised to let her have full instructions。 She would write to her friends in Paris and prepare them for Joan's coming。
Joan remembered Folk； the artist she had met at Flossie's party； who had promised to walk with her on the terrace at St。 Germain； and tell her more about her mother。 She looked up his address on her return home； and wrote to him； giving him the name of the hotel in the Rue de Grenelle where Mrs。 Denton had arranged that she should stay。 She found a note from him awaiting her when she arrived there。 He thought she would like to be quiet after her journey。 He would call round in the morning。 He had presumed on the privilege of age to send her some lilies。 They had been her mother's favourite flower。 〃Monsieur Folk； the great artist；〃 had brought them himself； and placed them in her dressing…room； so Madame informed her。
It was one of the half…dozen old hotels still left in Paris； and was built round a garden famous for its mighty mulberry tree。 She breakfasted underneath it； and was reading there when Folk appeared before her； smiling and with his hat in his hand。 He excused himself for intruding upon her so soon； thinking from what she had written him that her first morning might be his only chance。 He evidently considered her remembrance of him a feather in his cap。
〃We old fellows feel a little sadly； at times； how unimportant we are；〃 he explained。 〃We are grateful when Youth throws us a smile。〃
〃You told me my coming would take you back thirty…three years；〃 Joan reminded him。 〃It makes us about the same age。 I shall treat you as just a young man。〃
He laughed。 〃Don't be surprised；〃 he said； 〃if I make a mistake occasionally and call you Lena。〃
Joan had no appointment till the afternoon。 They drove out to St。 Germain； and had dejeuner at a small restaurant opposite the Chateau； and afterwards they strolled on to the terrace。
〃What was my mother doing in Paris？〃 asked Joan；
〃She was studying for the stage；〃 he answered。 〃Paris was the only school in those days。 I was at Julien's studio。 We acted together for some charity。 I had always been fond of it。 An American manager who was present offered us both an engagement； and I thought it would be a change and that I could combine the two arts。〃
〃And it was here that you proposed to her；〃 said Joan。
〃Just by that tree that leans forward；〃 he answered； pointing with his cane a little way ahead。 〃I thought that in America I'd get another chance。 I might have if your father hadn't come along。 I wonder if he remembers me。〃
〃Did you ever see her again； after her marriage？〃 asked Joan。
〃No；〃 he answered。 〃We used to write to one another until she gave it up。 She had got into the habit of looking upon me as a harmless sort of thing to confide in and ask advice ofwhich she never took。〃
〃Forgive me；〃 he said。 〃You must remember that I am still her lover。〃 They had reached the tree that leant a little forward beyond its fellows； and he had halted and turned so that he was facing her。 〃Did she and your father get on together。 Was she happy？〃
〃I don't think she was happy；〃 answered Joan。 〃She was at first。 As a child； I can remember her singing and laughing about the house； and she liked always to have people about her。 Until her illness came。 It changed her very much。 But my father was gentleness itself； to the end。〃
They had resumed their stroll。 It seemed to her that he looked at her once or twice a little oddly without speaking。 〃What caused your mother's illness？〃 he asked； abruptly。
The question troubled her。 It struck her with a pang of self… reproach that she had always been indifferent to her mother's illness； regarding it as more or less imaginary。 〃It was mental rather than physical； I think；〃 she answered。 〃I never knew what brought it about。〃
Again he looked at her with that odd； inquisitive expression。 〃She never got over it？〃 he asked。
〃Oh； there were times；〃 answered Joan； 〃when she was more like her old self again。 But I don't think she ever quite got over it。 Unless it was towards the end；〃 she added。 〃They told me she seemed much better for a little while before she died。 I was away at Cambridge at the time。〃
〃Poor dear lady；〃 he said； 〃all those years！ And poor Jack Allway。〃 He seemed to be talking to himself。 Suddenly he turned to her。 〃How is the dear fellow？〃 he asked。
Again the question troubled her。 She had not seen her father since that week…end； nearly six months ago； when she had ran down to see him because she wanted something from him。 〃He felt my mother's death very deeply；〃 she answered。 〃But he's well enough in health。〃
〃Remember me to him；〃 he said。 〃And tell him I thank him for all those years of love and gentleness。 I don't think he will be offended。〃
He drove her back to Paris； and she promised to come and see him in his studio and let him introduce her to his artist friends。
〃I shall try to win you over； I warn you；〃 he said。 〃Politics will never reform the world。 They appeal only to men's passions and hatreds。 They divide us。 It is Art that is going to civilize mankind； broaden his sympathies。 Art speaks to him the common language of his loves； his dreams； reveals to him the universal kinship。〃
Mrs。 Denton's friends called upon her； and most of them invited her to their houses。 A few were politicians； senators or ministers。 Others were bankers； heads of business houses； literary men and women。 There were also a few quiet folk with names that were historical。 They all thought that war between France and England would be a world disaster； but were not very hopeful of averting it。 She learnt that Carleton was in Berlin trying to secure possession of a well…known German daily that happened at the moment to be in low water。 He was working for an alliance between Germany and England。 In France； the Royalists had come to an understanding with the Clericals； and both were evidently making ready to throw in their lot with the war…mongers； hoping that out of the troubled waters the fish would come their way。 Of course everything depended on the people。 If the people only knew it！ But they didn't。 They stood about in puzzled flocks； like sheep； wondering which way the newspaper dog was going to hound them。 They took her to the great music halls。 Every allusion to war was greeted with rapturous applause。 The Marseillaise was demanded and encored till the orchestra rebelled from sheer exhaustion。 Joan's patience was sorely tested。 She had to listen with impassive face to coarse jests and brutal gibes directed against England and everything English； to sit unmoved while the vast audience rocked with laughter at senseless caricatures of supposed English soldiers whose knees always gave way at the sight of a French uniform。 Even in the eyes of her courteous hosts； Joan's quick glance would occasionally detect a curious glint。 The fools！ Had they never heard of Waterloo and Trafalgar？ Even if their memories might be excused for forgetting Crecy and Poictiers and the campaigns of Marlborough。 One eveningit had been a particularly trying one for Joanthere stepped upon the stage a wooden…looking man in a kilt with bagpipes under his arm。 How he had got himself into the programme Joan could not understand。 Managerial watchfulness must have gone to sleep for once。 He played Scotch melodies； and the Parisians liked them； and when he had finished they called him back。 Joan and her friends occupied a box close to the stage。 The wooden…looking Scot glanced up at her； and their eyes met。 And as the applause died down there rose the first low warning strains of the Pibroch。 Joan sat up in her chair and her lips parted。 The savage music quickened。 It shrilled and skrealed。 The blood came surging through her veins。
And suddenly something lying hidden there leaped to life within her brain。 A mad desire surged hold of her to rise and shout defiance at those three thousand pairs of hostile eyes confronting her。 She clutched at the arms of her chair and so kept her seat。 The pibroch ended with its wild sad notes of wailing； and slowly the mist cleared from her eyes； and the stage was empty。 A strange hush had fallen on the house。
She was not aware that her hostess had been watching her。 She was a sweet…faced； white…haired lady。 She touched Joan lightly on the hand。 〃That's the trouble；〃 she whispered。 〃It's in our blood。〃
Could we ever hope to eradicate it？ Was not the survival of this fighting instinct proof that war was still needful to us？ In the sculpture…room of an exhibition she came upon a painted statue of Bellona。 Its grotesqueness shocked her at first sight； the red streaming hair； the wild eyes filled with fury； the wide open mouthone could almost hear it screamingthe white uplifted arms with outstretched hands！ Appalling！ Terrible！ And yet； as she gazed at it； gradually the thing grew curiously real to her。 She seemed to hear the gathering of the chariots； the neighing of the horses； the hurrying of many feet； the sound of an armouring multitude； the shouting； and the brayin