"Yes—hem—well, as I was about to say, she was—er—indiscreet," stammered Mr. George.
"That's what they all say," said Mrs. Stout, scornfully. "I s'pose it would have been all right if she'd worn a bathin'-suit. If Miss Wallace was indiscreet, what would you call your two girls when they went in bathin' down to Horse Shoe Beach last summer at the Sunday-school picnic before half the folks in Manville? Miss Wallace's costume wa'n't half as indiscreet as a wet bathin' suit is."
"Custom, Mrs. Stout, excuses many things," replied Mr. George, his face very red.
"Custom is often a mean excuse for not doin' right," retorted Mrs. Stout. "Because it's been the custom since the year one for men to get drunk, and women's tongues to wag about other folkses business, does that make it right?"
Mr. George was silenced—completely out of action, and sat staring at his inquisitor, wondering what would come next.
"Mr. George," Mrs. Stout continued, "I'm goin' into politics next fall. The law of this State only lets a woman vote for school committee, but in this case that's enough. That's all I've got to say, I guess, just now. If you should make up your mind to take Miss Wallace back I wish you'd let me know." With a glance of contempt at the man before her, Mrs. Stout left her chair, and started for the door. Mr. George followed, mechanically opened the door, and when she had gone out, closed it softly.
Mrs. Stout felt relieved, but not satisfied, after the two calls that she had made, and as she walked slowly homeward, planned the campaign that was to defeat Mr. George and his colleagues at the next election. But her dreams of political victory were quickly dispelled when she reached home. Barbara and Fanny were in tears.
"Well, well, what's happened now?" she asked.
"I—I told her about the sermon," sobbed Fanny. "But I didn't intend to, really I didn't, Mrs. Stout."
"Well, she'd better hear it from her friends than somebody else," said Mrs. Stout, soothingly. "Secrets never do any good, anyway."