Joan was making herself a cup of tea when there came a tap at the door. It was Mrs. Phillips.
"I heard you come in," she said. "You're not busy, are you?""No," answered Joan. "I hope you're not. I'm generally in about this time; and it's always nice to gossip over a dish of tea.""Why do you say 'dish' of tea!" asked Mrs. Phillips, as she lowered herself with evident satisfaction into the easy chair Joan placed for her.
"Oh, I don't know," laughed Joan. "Dr. Johnson always talked of a 'dish' of tea. Gives it a literary flavour.""I've heard of him," said Mrs. Phillips. "He's worth reading, isn't he?""Well, he talked more amusingly than he wrote," explained Joan.
"Get Boswell's Life of him. Or I'll lend you mine," she added, "if you'll be careful of it. You'll find all the passages marked that are best worth remembering. At least, I think so.""Thanks," said Mrs. Phillips. "You see, as the wife of a public man, I get so little time for study.""Is it settled yet?" asked Joan. "Are they going to make room for him in the Cabinet?
"I'm afraid so," answered Mrs. Phillips. "Oh, of course, I want him to," she corrected herself. "And he must, of course, if the King insists upon it. But I wish it hadn't all come with such a whirl. What shall I have to do, do you think?"Joan was pouring out the tea. "Oh, nothing," she answered, "but just be agreeable to the right people. He'll tell you who they are. And take care of him.""I wish I'd taken more interest in politics when I was young," said Mrs. Phillips. "Of course, when I was a girl, women weren't supposed to.""Do you know, I shouldn't worry about them, if I were you," Joan advised her. "Let him forget them when he's with you. A man can have too much of a good thing," she laughed.
"I wonder if you're right," mused Mrs. Phillips. "He does often say that he'd just as soon I didn't talk about them."Joan shot a glance from over her cup. The poor puzzled face was staring into the fire. Joan could almost hear him saying it.
"I'm sure I am," she said. "Make home-coming a change to him. As you said yourself the other evening. It's good for him to get away from it all, now and then.""I must try," agreed Mrs. Phillips, looking up. "What sort of things ought I to talk to him about, do you think?"Joan gave an inward sigh. Hadn't the poor lady any friends of her own. "Oh, almost anything," she answered vaguely: "so long as it's cheerful and non-political. What used you to talk about before he became a great man?"There came a wistful look into the worried eyes. "Oh, it was all so different then," she said. "'E just liked to--you know. We didn't seem to 'ave to talk. 'E was a rare one to tease. I didn't know 'ow clever 'e was, then."It seemed a difficult case to advise upon. "How long have you been married?" Joan asked.
"Fifteen years," she answered. "I was a bit older than 'im. But I've never looked my age, they tell me. Lord, what a boy 'e was!
Swept you off your feet, like. 'E wasn't the only one. I'd got a way with me, I suppose. Anyhow, the men seemed to think so. There was always a few 'anging about. Like flies round a 'oney-pot, Mother used to say." She giggled. "But 'e wouldn't take No for an answer. And I didn't want to give it 'im, neither. I was gone on 'im, right enough. No use saying I wasn't.""You must be glad you didn't say No," suggested Joan.
"Yes," she answered, "'E's got on. I always think of that little poem, 'Lord Burleigh,'" she continued; "whenever I get worrying about myself. Ever read it?""Yes," answered Joan. "He was a landscape painter, wasn't he?""That's the one," said Mrs. Phillips. "I little thought I was letting myself in for being the wife of a big pot when Bob Phillips came along in 'is miner's jacket.""You'll soon get used to it," Joan told her. "The great thing is not to be afraid of one's fate, whatever it is; but just to do one's best." It was rather like talking to a child.
"You're the right sort to put 'eart into a body. I'm glad I came up," said Mrs. Phillips. "I get a bit down in the mouth sometimes when 'e goes off into one of 'is brown studies, and I don't seem to know what 'e's thinking about. But it don't last long. I was always one of the light-'earted ones."They discussed life on two thousand a year; the problems it would present; and Mrs. Phillips became more cheerful. Joan laid herself out to be friendly. She hoped to establish an influence over Mrs.
Phillips that should be for the poor lady's good; and, as she felt instinctively, for poor Phillips's also. It was not an unpleasing face. Underneath the paint, it was kind and womanly. Joan was sure he would like it better clean. A few months' attention to diet would make a decent figure of her and improve her wind. Joan watched her spreading the butter a quarter of an inch thick upon her toast and restrained with difficulty the impulse to take it away from her. And her clothes! Joan had seen guys carried through the streets on the fifth of November that were less obtrusive.
She remembered, as she was taking her leave, what she had come for:
which was to invite Joan to dinner on the following Friday.
"It's just a homely affair," she explained. She had recovered her form and was now quite the lady again. "Two other guests beside yourself: a Mr. Airlie--I am sure you will like him. He's so dilletanty--and Mr. McKean. He's the young man upstairs. Have you met him?"Joan hadn't: except once on the stairs when, to avoid having to pass her, he had gone down again and out into the street. From the doorstep she had caught sight of his disappearing coat-tails round the corner. Yielding to impishness, she had run after him, and his expression of blank horror when, glancing over his shoulder, he found her walking abstractedly three yards behind him, had gladdened all her evening.
Joan recounted the episode--so far as the doorstep.
"He tried to be shy with me," said Mrs. Phillips, "but I wouldn't let him. I chipped him out of it. If he's going to write plays, as I told him, he will have to get over his fear of a petticoat."She offered her cheek, and Joan kissed it, somewhat gingerly.