Geoffrey. Um!
Mrs. Chinn. You see, sir—a thing like that—(She recovers herself.) It clings to a lad.
Geoffrey. What do you want me to do?
Mrs. Chinn. Well, sir, I thought that, perhaps—you see, sir, he has got a brother in Canada who would help him; and I thought that if I could ship him off—
Geoffrey. You want me to tip the wink to the police to look the other way while you smuggle this young malefactor out of the clutches of the law?
Mrs. Chinn. (Quite indifferent to the moral aspect of the case.) If you would be so kind, sir.
Geoffrey. Umph! I suppose you know what you’re doing; appealing through your womanhood to man’s weakness—employing “backstairs influence” to gain your private ends, indifferent to the higher issues of the public weal? All the things that are going to cease when woman has the vote.
Mrs. Chinn. You see, sir, he’s the youngest.
(Gradually the decent but dingy figure of Mrs. Chinn has taken to itself new shape. To Geoffrey, it almost seems as though there were growing out of the shadows over against him the figure of great Artemis herself—Artemis of the Thousand Breasts. He had returned home angry, bitter against all women. As she unfolds her simple tale understanding comes to him. So long as there are “Mrs. Chinns” in the world, Woman claims homage.)
Geoffrey. How many were there?