They were spinning along the Broughton Road now, heading for Putney and Richmond, and Hal felt her spirits rising momentarily with the joy of the motion and comfort and fresh air.
“We don’t expect to get in on tea and buns; we expect to get it on whisky and beer. That is to say, we expect the course of events to prove that tea and buns conduce to a frame of mind better able to cope with the questions of the day than the whisky and beer drained in such quantities by men.”
“And when you’ve got it you’ll all vote for the man who happens to be good-looking, and who can pay you the prettiest compliments.”
“A few will vote that way, no doubt, but not the majority. Women are not so fond of pretty men as they were”; and her lips curled significantly.
“Pretty men!…” he echoed, with enjoyment.
“Little woman, you have a neat way of putting things.”
He was silent a few minutes, then added:
“I suppose, down at that office they are all in love with you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked them,” with twinkling eyes. “I’m a bit in love with the chief myself.”
“Oh, your are, are you? And what aged man might he be?”