Especially the women the property qualification would bring in. (He glances at Jean as though for the first time conscious of her silence.) You see now (he throws himself into the chair by the table) one reason why I've encouraged you to take an interest in public affairs. Because people like us don't go screaming about it, is no sign we don't (some of us) see what's on the way. However little they want to, women of our class will have to come into line. All the best things in the world—everything that civilisation has won will be in danger if—when this change comes—the only women who have practical political training are the women of the lower classes. Women of the lower classes, and (his brows knit heavily)—women inoculated by the Socialist virus.
Jean. Geoffrey.
Stonor (draws the telegraph form towards him). Let us see, how we shall put it—when the time comes—shall we? (He detaches a pencil from his watch chain and bends over the paper, writing.)
(Jean opens her lips to speak, moves a shade nearer the table and then falls back upon her silent, half-incredulous misery.)
Stonor (holds the paper off, smiling). Enough dynamite in that! Rather too much, isn't there, little girl?
Jean. Geoffrey, I know her story.
Stonor. Whose story?
Jean. Miss Levering's.
Stonor. Whose?
Jean. Vida Levering's.