"It always seems to me Christ's birthday," she said, "whenever a child is
born."
They had reached the corner. Joan could see her bus in the distance.
She stooped and kissed the little withered face.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
Mary gave her a hug, and almost ran away. Joan watched the little child-
like figure growing smaller. It glided in and out among the people.
CHAPTER XI
In the spring, Joan, at Mrs. Denton's request, undertook a mission. It
was to go to Paris. Mrs. Denton had meant to go herself, but was laid up
with sciatica; and the matter, she considered, would not brook of any
delay.
"It's rather a delicate business," she told Joan. She was lying on a
couch in her great library, and Joan was seated by her side. "I want
someone who can go into private houses and mix with educated people on
their own level; and especially I want you to see one or two women: they
count in France. You know French pretty well, don't you?"
"Oh, sufficiently," Joan answered. The one thing her mother had done for
her had been to talk French with her when she was a child; and at Girton
she had chummed on with a French girl, and made herself tolerably
perfect.
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