“It’s the syndicates that have done it,” was a Mrs. Elliot’s opinion.  She wrote “Society Notes” for a Labour weekly.  “When one man owned a paper he wanted it to express his views.  A company is only out for profit.  Your modern newspaper is just a shop.  It’s only purpose is to attract customers.  Look at the Methodist Herald, owned by the same syndicate of Jews that runs the Racing News.  They work it as far as possible with the same staff.”

“We’re a pack of hirelings,” asserted the fiery little woman.  “Our pens are for sale to the highest bidder.  I had a letter from Jocelyn only two days ago.  He was one of the original staff of the Socialist.  He writes me that he has gone as leader writer to a Conservative paper at twice his former salary.  Expected me to congratulate him.”

“One of these days somebody will start a Society for the Reformation of the Press,” thought Flossie.  “I wonder how the papers will take it?”

“Much as Rome took Savonarola,” thought Madge.

Mrs. Denton had risen.

“They are right to a great extent,” she said to Joan.  “But not all the temple has been given over to the hucksters.  You shall place your preaching stool in some quiet corner, where the passing feet shall pause awhile to listen.”

Her going was the signal for the breaking up of the party.  In a short time Joan and Madge found themselves left with only Flossie.

“What on earth induced Helen to bring that poor old Dutch doll along with her?” demanded Flossie.  “The woman never opened her mouth all the time.  Did she tell you?”

“No,” answered Madge, “but I think I can guess.  She hopes—­or perhaps ‘fears’ would be more correct—­that her husband is going to join the Cabinet, and is trying to fit herself by suddenly studying political and social questions.  For a month she’s been clinging like a leech to Helen Lavery, who takes her to meetings and gatherings.  I suppose they’ve struck up some sort of a bargain.  It’s rather pathetic.”

“Good Heavens!  What a tragedy for the man,” commented Flossie.

“What is he like?” asked Joan.

“Not much to look at, if that’s what you mean,” answered Madge.  “Began life as a miner, I believe.  Looks like ending as Prime Minister.”

“I heard him at the Albert Hall last week,” said Flossie.  “He’s quite wonderful.”

“In what way?” questioned Joan.

“Oh, you know,” explained Flossie.  “Like a volcano compressed into a steam engine.”

They discussed Joan’s plans.  It looked as if things were going to be easy for her.

CHAPTER IV

Yet in the end it was Carleton who opened the door for her.