Miss Greyson, working in the adjoining room, would raise her head and
listen. She loved to hear him laugh.
"It's absurd," Flossie told her one morning, as having met by chance they
were walking home together along the Embankment. "You're not 'Clorinda';
you ought to be writing letters to her, not from her, waking her up,
telling her to come off her perch, and find out what the earth feels
like. I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll trot you round to Carleton. If
you're out for stirring up strife and contention, well, that's his game,
too. He'll use you for his beastly sordid ends. He'd have roped in John
the Baptist if he'd been running the 'Jerusalem Star' at the time, and
have given him a daily column for so long as the boom lasted. What's
that matter, if he's willing to give you a start?"
Joan jibbed at first. But in the end Flossie's arguments prevailed. One
afternoon, a week later, she was shown into Carleton's private room, and
the door closed behind her. The light was dim, and for a moment she
could see no one; until Carleton, who had been standing near one of the
windows, came forward and placed a chair for her.
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