It is those that serve, not
those that rule, shall conquer."
Joan had never known him quite so serious. Generally there was a touch
of irony in his talk, a suggestion of aloofness that had often irritated
her.
"I wish you would always be yourself, as you are now," she said, "and
never pose."
"Do I pose?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
"That shows how far it has gone," she told him, "that you don't even know
it. You pretend to be a philosopher. But you're really a man."
He laughed. "It isn't always a pose," he explained. "It's some men's
way of saying: Thy will be done."
"Ask Phillips to come and see me," he said. "I can be of more help, if I
know exactly his views."
He walked with her to the bus. They passed a corner house that he had
more than once pointed out to her. It had belonged, years ago, to a well-
known artist, who had worked out a wonderful scheme of decoration in the
drawing-room. A board was up, announcing that the house was for sale. A
gas lamp, exactly opposite, threw a flood of light upon the huge white
lettering.
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