“I don’t know,” said Julia, crossly. “I’ve forgotten. He was a dark wiry boy with a lean face and a square jaw. He suggests the North American Indian, but is a new type altogether—Western American, no doubt. But I’d rather talk about you. You’ve disappointed me, but I don’t see why you should be quite so cut up about it. Ishbel is married and in love and has two babies, but she has come out as an ardent suffragette; so much so that her business has suffered —”
“Yes, but she marches in no parades, and takes part in no raids. Dark will stand for a good deal, but he’s threatened to go to India if she goes too far; and she won’t. Trust her. She’s just like any other woman in love. And Dark’s a good fellow, not the sort a woman would care to sacrifice. So is Robert. There you are.”
“I love Ishbel as much as ever,” said Julia, thoughtfully. “But somehow I don’t find her as interesting —”
“A happy woman has no psychology in her. Her mind may go on developing, but her ego is at a standstill. That’s where I’m aiming! And I wanted to stand alone! I’m not the myself I thought. That’s what cuts. After those six men mauled me and broke my rib, and I lay in that wretched prison all night, I thought I was seasoned for life. And I wasn’t!”
Julia sprang to her feet. “What’s the use of worrying about what can’t be helped?” she cried angrily. “Let’s go down to supper.”
XII
A fortnight later Julia was recalled to London. She took a small flat in Clement’s Inn, Strand, where the W. S. P. U. was about to establish itself. She learned immediately that on the first day of the autumn session of Parliament a deputation of women intended to go to the Lobby of the House and send word to the Prime Minister that they expected some assurance from him regarding the prospects of franchise for their sex. Hundreds would await the news without.
By this time there was no danger of any definite move by the women being overlooked by the press, and they were treated as news no matter with what lack of sympathy. As to be spectacular whenever the opportunity offered was a part of their policy, they overlooked no means to that end; quite aware that Julia was as valuable an asset as they were likely to have, she was drafted to make one of the deputation to the House of Commons on October third. By this time other women of the aristocracy had flocked to their standard, and several prominent in the arts, but Julia had a very special personality, and a value for the press which insured her a separate “story” whether or not she were the chief figure in any of the carefully rehearsed scenes executed by the Militants. Therefore, having received her instructions for the third, she called on the duke the night of the second. She had not heard from him since the letter received at Keighley, nor had she heard from his solicitors.
The duke was in the library and rose ceremoniously as she was shown in, but did not offer his hand. Julia took the same chair from which she had defied him in a period of her life that now seemed identical with a lost personality.
“I should have called long ago,” she said, “but you were at Bosquith when I returned from Syria, and I have been out of London ever since.”