“Why?”
“Mrs. Protheroe!” he exclaimed, taken aback. “I thought all the ladies were against it. My own mother wrote to me from Stackpole that she'd rather see me in my grave than votin' for such a bill, and I'd rather see myself there!”
“But are you sure that you understand it?”
“I only know it desecrates the Sabbath. That's enough for me!”
She leaned toward him and his breath came quickly.
“No. You're wrong,” she said, and rested the tips of her fingers upon his sleeve.
“I don't understand why—why you say that,” he faltered. “It sounds kind of—surprising to me—”
“Listen,” she said. “Perhaps Mr. Truslow told you that I am studying such things. I do not want to be an idle woman; I want to be of use to the world, even if it must be only in small ways.”
“I think that is a noble ambition!” he exclaimed. “I think all good women ought—”
“Wait,” she interrupted gently. “Now, that bill is a worthy one, though it astonishes you to hear me say so. Perhaps you don't understand the conditions. Sunday is the labouring-man's only day of recreation—and what recreation is he offered?”