Borne by those feeble, knotted hands, Joan saw it revealed as something holy: hallowed by labour; sanctified by suffering, by sacrifice; worshipped with fear and prayer.
In quiet streets of stately houses, she caught glimpses through uncurtained windows of richly-laid dinner-tables about which servants moved noiselessly, arranging flowers and silver.

She wondered idly if she would every marry.

A gracious hostess, gathering around her brilliant men and women, statesmen, writers, artists, captains of industry: counselling them, even learning from them: encouraging shy genius.

Perhaps, in a perfectly harmless way, allowing it the inspiration derivable from a well-regulated devotion to herself.

A salon that should be the nucleus of all those forces that influence influences, over which she would rule with sweet and wise authority.