Julia, who had grown methodical, had put on the green tea-gown as a logical result of its purchase for the delectation of her old friend; and he gave it instant approval.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “That’s the sort of thing you were made for. You look less of a Suffragette than ever. I hope that when you have accomplished your horrible purpose and have nothing to do but vote, you will receive me in a boudoir the same shade.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if I did have a boudoir one of these days— You look rather nice yourself in your evening clothes— That would be a good idea for all of us. We’ll take a rest cure first, and then feminize ourselves just enough.”
“Rather flat, though, to receive women in boudoirs, for no men will go to see you—them.”
“Oh, won’t they? Men will readjust their old ideals when they have to, and be glad of something new in women.”
“Yes, but that sort won’t care a hang about boudoirs.”
“They will about mine. And I’ll promise it shall be large enough for people with long legs. I hope the waiters won’t stumble over yours when they bring in the dinner.”
Tay had had some misgivings about this dinner, having been asked to speak once or twice before women’s clubs, foregathered at the luncheon hour. But Julia had not lost her taste for dainty edibles, and he hardly could have fared better anywhere, save in the city of his birth.
“How is it you know so much about food?” he asked as the dishes were being removed. “You say the Suffragettes are not even masculine, they are sexless. No wonder they could stand gaol. No doubt they live on ancestral memories.”
“Gaol has ruined most of their stomachs, all the same, and I should have choked over every morsel I ate, if I hadn’t deliberately thought about something else—detached my mind.”