There had been a meeting that afternoon at Lady Malden's in Prince's Gate to consider the position of the working-class woman. It had provided a somewhat heated discussion, for a person had got up and proved almost incontestably that the working-class woman had no position whatsoever.
Gregory Vigil and Mrs. Shortman had left this meeting together, and, crossing the Serpentine, struck a line over the grass.
“Mrs. Shortman,” said Gregory, “don't you think we're all a little mad?”
He was carrying his hat in his hand, and his fine grizzled hair, rumpled in the excitement of the meeting, had not yet subsided on his head.
“Yes, Mr. Vigil. I don't exactly——”
“We are all a little mad! What did that woman, Lady Malden, mean by talking as she did? I detest her!”
“Oh, Mr. Vigil! She has the best intentions!”
“Intentions?” said Gregory. “I loathe her! What did we go to her stuffy drawing-room for? Look at that sky!”
Mrs. Shortman looked at the sky.
“But, Mr. Vigil,” she said earnestly, “things would never get done. Sometimes I think you look at everything too much in the light of the way it ought to be!”