“The world?”
“Surely, you must feel proud that she’s quite the hope of the party, a flaming torch. If she remains in London, why, she’ll be its only leader—a regular queen.”
“Queen?”
Mrs. Edis set the tea-pot violently down.
“Prime Minister, you know, or something like that,” said Pirie. “Strange things are happening.”
“Are you making game of me?” cried Mrs. Edis, furiously.
“Oh, Pirie never makes game of anybody but himself,” said Mrs. Macmanus, soothingly.
“I beg your pardon, then, but it sounds pure gammon to me.”
“It does to many, dear madam.”
Mrs. Edis was staring straight before her, the company forgotten. “Queen.” That still active brain, never rusty, nor clouded, had leaped back to the night when she and old M’sieu had pored over Julia’s horoscope. “Queen.” The word had almost been written. They had compromised on a mere peerage, as the times no longer permitted the marriage of a sovereign with a subject. But—times change—Julia had unwittingly made her feel like an old crab—moreover, the twentieth century was to witness the birth of a new solar year, the year of Man. Might that be but a generic term? The woman’s movement had been abhorrent to her, shocking every aristocratic instinct, much as she despised men. But she had begun to realize that it was both portentous and imperishable. If Julia was to lead it, if in it lay her child’s only chance to achieve a vast and splendid distinction—well, she was not too old to reconstruct her ideas, bury her inherited ideals, move, herself, with the times.