CHAPTER IV
Yet in the end it was Carleton who opened the door for her.
Mrs. Denton was helpful, and would have been more so, if Joan had only
understood. Mrs. Denton lived alone in an old house in Gower Street,
with a high stone hall that was always echoing to sounds that no one but
itself could ever hear. Her son had settled, it was supposed, in one of
the Colonies. No one knew what had become of him, and Mrs. Denton
herself never spoke of him; while her daughter, on whom she had centred
all her remaining hopes, had died years ago. To those who remembered the
girl, with her weak eyes and wispy ginger coloured hair, it would have
seemed comical, the idea that Joan resembled her. But Mrs. Denton's
memory had lost itself in dreams; and to her the likeness had appeared
quite wonderful. The gods had given her child back to her, grown strong
and brave and clever. Life would have a new meaning for her. Her work
would not die with her.
She thought she could harness Joan's enthusiasm to her own wisdom. She
would warn her of the errors and pitfalls into which she herself had
fallen: for she, too, had started as a rebel.
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