She expected to be there for some
years, she wrote. The work was interesting, and appealed to her.
Flossie 'phoned her from Paddington Station, the second day, and by luck
she happened to be in. Flossie had just come up from Devonshire. Sam
had "got through," and she was on her way to meet him at Hull. She had
heard of Joan's arrival in London from one of Carleton's illustrated
dailies. She brought the paper with her. They had used the old
photograph that once had adorned each week the _Sunday Post_. Joan
hardly recognized herself in the serene, self-confident young woman who
seemed to be looking down upon a world at her feet. The world was strong
and cruel, she had discovered; and Joans but small and weak. One had to
pretend that one was not afraid of it.
Flossie had joined every society she could hear of that was working for
the League of Nations. Her hope was that it would get itself established
before young Frank grew up.
"Not that I really believe it will," she confessed. "A draw might have
disgusted us all with fighting. As it is, half the world is dancing at
Victory balls, exhibiting captured guns on every village green, and
hanging father's helmet above the mantelpiece; while the other half is
nursing its revenge.
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