Elizabeth. Can nothing be done to rouse the working-class woman out of her apathy?
Phoebe. Well, if you ask me, I think a good deal has been done.
Elizabeth. Oh, what’s the use of our deceiving ourselves? The great mass are utterly indifferent.
Janet (She is seated in an easy-chair near the fire.) I was talking to a woman only yesterday—in Bethnal Green. She keeps a husband and three children by taking in washing. “Lord, miss,” she laughed, “what would we do with the vote if we did have it? Only one thing more to give to the men.”
Phoebe. That’s rather good.
Elizabeth. The curse of it is that it’s true. Why should they put themselves out merely that one man instead of another should dictate their laws to them?
Phoebe. My dear girl, precisely the same argument was used against the Second Reform Bill. What earthly difference could it make to the working men whether Tory Squire or Liberal capitalist ruled over them? That was in 1868. To-day, fifty-four Labour Members sit in Parliament. At the next election they will hold the balance.
Elizabeth. Ah, if we could only hold out that sort of hope to them!
(Annys enters. She is in outdoor costume. She kisses Phoebe, shakes hands with the other two. Annys’s age is about twenty-five. She is a beautiful, spiritual-looking creature, tall and graceful, with a manner that is at the same time appealing and commanding. Her voice is soft and caressing, but capable of expressing all the emotions. Her likeness to her younger sister Phoebe is of the slightest: the colouring is the same, and the eyes that can flash, but there the similarity ends. She is simply but well dressed. Her soft hair makes a quiet but wonderfully effective frame to her face.)
Annys. (She is taking off her outdoor things.) Hope I’m not late. I had to look in at Caxton House. Why are we holding it here?