Of her mother she had always stood somewhat in fear, never knowing when the mood of passionate affection would give place to a chill aversion that seemed almost like hate.  Perhaps it had been good for her, so she told herself in after years, her lonely, unguided childhood.  It had forced her to think and act for herself.  At school she reaped the benefit.  Self-reliant, confident, original, leadership was granted to her as a natural prerogative.  Nature had helped her.  Nowhere does a young girl rule more supremely by reason of her beauty than among her fellows.  Joan soon grew accustomed to having her boots put on and taken off for her; all her needs of service anticipated by eager slaves, contending with one another for the privilege.  By giving a command, by bestowing a few moments of her conversation, it was within her power to make some small adoring girl absurdly happy for the rest of the day; while her displeasure would result in tears, in fawning pleadings for forgiveness.  The homage did not spoil her.  Rather it helped to develop her.  She accepted it from the beginning as in the order of things.  Power had been given to her.  It was her duty to see to it that she did not use it capriciously, for her own gratification.  No conscientious youthful queen could have been more careful in the distribution of her favours—­that they should be for the encouragement of the deserving, the reward of virtue; more sparing of her frowns, reserving them for the rectification of error.

At Girton it was more by force of will, of brain, that she had to make her position.  There was more competition.  Joan welcomed it, as giving more zest to life.  But even there her beauty was by no means a negligible quantity.  Clever, brilliant young women, accustomed to sweep aside all opposition with a blaze of rhetoric, found themselves to their irritation sitting in front of her silent, not so much listening to her as looking at her.  It puzzled them for a time.  Because a girl’s features are classical and her colouring attractive, surely that has nothing to do with the value of her political views?  Until one of them discovered by chance that it has.

“Well, what does Beauty think about it?” this one had asked, laughing.  She had arrived at the end of a discussion just as Joan was leaving the room.  And then she gave a long low whistle, feeling that she had stumbled upon the explanation.  Beauty, that mysterious force that from the date of creation has ruled the world, what does It think?  Dumb, passive, as a rule, exercising its influence unconsciously.  But if it should become intelligent, active!  A Philosopher has dreamed of the vast influence that could be exercised by a dozen sincere men acting in unity.  Suppose a dozen of the most beautiful women in the world could form themselves into a league!  Joan found them late in the evening still discussing it.