'There may be another explanation,' said Miss Levering, a little curtly, but wisely she forbore to present it.
If the rough and ready reformer had chilled her new sympathizer by this bitterness against 'the parasite class,' she wiped out the memory of it by the enthusiasm with which she spoke of those other women, her fellow-workers.
'Our women are wonderful!' she lifted her tired head. 'I knew they'd never had a chance to show what they were, but there are some things—— No! I didn't think women had it in them.'
She had got up and was standing now by the door, her limp gown clinging round her, her weather-beaten Tam on one side. But in the confident look with which she spoke of 'our women,' the brow had cleared. You saw that it was beautiful. Miss Levering stood at the door with an anxious eye on the stair, as if fearful of the home-coming of 'her fellow-coward,' or, direr catastrophe—old Mr. Fox-Moore's discovering the damning fact of this outlaw's presence under his roof! Yet, even so, torn thus between dread and desire to pluck out the heart of the new mystery, 'the militant woman,' Miss Levering did not speed the parting guest. As though recognizing fully now that the prophesied use was not going to be made of the 'thin end of the wedge,' she detained her with—
'I wonder when I shall see you again.'
'I don't know,' said the other, absently.
'When is the next meeting?'
'Next Sunday. Every Sunday.'
'I shall be glad to hear you speak again; but—you'll come and see me—here.'
'I can't. I'm going away.'