He was not going to lecture her any more, he decided. Elizabeth had written him a letter which was almost triumphant in tone; Joan was making up her mind, it seemed; perhaps after all she would show some spirit. In any case he found her adorable, with her black, cropped hair, her beautiful mouth, and her queer, gruff voice. Her flanks were lean and strong like a boy's; they suggested splendid, unfettered movement. She looked all wrong in evening dress, almost grotesque; but to Richard she appeared beautiful because symbolic of some future state--a forerunner. As he looked at her he seemed to see a vast army of women like herself, fine, splendid and fiercely virginal; strong, too, capable of gripping life and holding it against odds--the women of the future. They fascinated him, these as yet unborn women, stimulating his imagination, challenging his intellect, demanding of him an explanation of themselves. He dropped his hand on Joan's where it lay in her lap. "Have you prayed over your sword?" he asked gravely. She knew what he meant. "No," she said. "I haven't had the courage to unsheathe it yet." "Then unsheathe it now and put it on the altar rails, and then get down on your knees and pray over it all night." Their eyes met, young, frank and curious, and in hers there was a faint antagonism. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 1 IN the following February Milly was sent home They wrote from Alexandra House to say that for the present, at all events, she was too ill to continue her studies. She had had a touch of pneumonia shortly after her return, with the result that her lungs were weak. The matron wrote what was meant to be a kind and tactful letter. It was full of veiled sentences; the sort of letter that distracted Joan by reason of its merciful vagueness. The letter said that Milly was not strong, that she was losing weight and was apt to run a little temperature night and morning; according to the doctor, her lungs required care and she must be given time to recover, and plenty of open air. Joan looked across at Mrs. Ogden as she finished reading. "It's tubercle," she said briefly. Her voice sounded calm and cold. "I might be saying 'It's Monday to-day,'" she thought. She felt stupid with pity for Milly and for herself. Mrs. Ogden tightened her lips; she assumed her stubborn expression. "What nonsense, Joan! We've never had such a thing in our family." "But, good heavens, Mother!--your father and your brother died of galloping consumption." "Nothing of the kind. Henry died of bronchial pneumonia; you don't know what you're talking about, my dear." Joan thought. "She's going to refuse to face it, she's going to play ostrich; what on earth am I to do!" Aloud she said: "Well, I'd better go up and fetch her; we can't let her travel alone." "Ah! there I agree with you; certainly go up and bring her home. But whatever you do, don't frighten the life out of the poor child with any ridiculous talk about consumption."