“I should want to scratch you, and bite you, and push you into the first available ditch, for a poor coward, who was afraid to take care of the interests of woman, in case she got too well able in the end to take care of herself—so there.”
He could not help laughing, and when he subsided she added:
“I suppose you are one.”
“Why do you suppose it?”
“Never mind. Are you?”
“You promise you won’t scratch me and bite me?”
“I’ll give you a sporting chance to run away.”
“I’m not very likely to run away from you, I think.”
They had reached the well-lit roads now, and he turned and looked keenly into her face, partly to see if by chance he might recognise her, and partly to get a cleaner idea of her appearance.
“You look too nice to be a suffragette,” he said.