In the centre of the Park, one Sunday on the grass, stood a red flag on a waggonette, from which the horse has been unhitched. In the vehicle sat four women; a large crowd surrounded them. It was a suffragette meeting. An elderly woman was speaking, her audience was mainly composed of men of every class and grade,—from the Society man in immaculate silk hat and frock-coat to the tramp with his grubby bundle under his arm. Here and there a woman’s dress relieved the sombre-looking crowd with a bit of colour, and nurses wheeling perambulators, occupied by aristocratic babies, formed a fringed border to the gathering. Shouts of laughter rose every few seconds; even the burly policemen, scattered here and there through the crowd, joined in the merriment with more than a good-humoured chuckle. The old lady was bringing her speech to a close.
“And what have you men done with the world, the lot of ye?” she asked.
“And what are ye afraid we women shall do with the world when we’ve our vote?
“Afraid! that’s what ye are!”
Each remark produced a roar of laughter, which rose higher and higher each time.
“You don’t want churches,” she continued. “Ruskin said you don’t want churches——”
“Who did?” asked one of the crowd.
“Why, Ruskin,” she replied. “I read it not long ago.... We don’t want churches either.”
“What do you want, then,—public-houses?” asked a facetious interrupter.
“No,” was the quick reply; “we are going to put down public-houses and build nice homes.”