Another storm—a storm of remonstrance now arose. Cries of "Shame, shame," were hurled towards the platform. Then, as some of the audience recognized the new speaker, they exclaimed to the people near them: "It's the President's daughter! It's Zenobia Jardine!"
"Order, order!" roared a minority of the audience, now somewhat encouraged, and in a few minutes, while Zenobia waited—her eyes bright, her lips firmly set—order was secured. The Vice-President had sat down. She looked at her young opponent with no friendly eye, taking no trouble to secure her a quiet hearing. But there was a section of the audience that had only waited for a champion, and meant to see fair play.
"I oppose it," repeated Zenobia, "because I believe that to arm women and train them to fight will be a mad and wicked act. It would mean a return to barbarism. It would be adding a monstrous climax to the progress of a great cause. Instead of being the final exaltation of our sex, it would lead to our political extinction and our ruin. Let us have none of it."
The Vice-President's face wore a wicked look, and her thin lips tightened as this appeal drew a loud cheer from the men and from a certain number of the women in the excited audience.
"It has been said that the empire of women is an empire of softness, of address. Her commands are caresses, her menaces are tears!"
"No! No!" came from the throats of the Vice-President's supporters. The Vice-President herself arose.
"Will the speaker favour us with the authority for her quotations?" she asked in loud and cutting tones.
"Rousseau...." began Zenobia nervously.
"An effeminate authority indeed!" exclaimed the Vice-President. "We are not all in love" she added sneeringly.
She seemed for the moment to have won the audience back to her cause. But Zenobia was not beaten.