"Because I could not take the responsibility."
"How would it help me—to give me up? According to you—" she breathed fast—"I should only—go to perdition—the quicker!" Her eyes still laughed, but behind the laughter there was a rush of feeling which communicated itself to him.
"May I suggest that it is not necessary to go to perdition—at all—fast or slow?"
She shook her head. Silence followed; which Winnington broke.
"You said you would like to come and see some of the village people—your own people—and the school? Was that serious?"
"Certainly!" She raised an indignant countenance. "I suppose you think—like everybody—that because I want the vote, I can't care about anything else?"
"You'll admit it has a way of driving everything else out," he said, mildly. "Have you ever been into the village—for a month?—for two months? The things you wanted have been done. But you haven't been to see." She sprang to her feet.
"Shall I come now?"
"If it suits you. I've saved the afternoon."
She ran out of the room to put on her things, upsetting as she did so, the work-box with which she had been masquerading, and quite unconscious of it. Winnington, smiling to himself, stooped to pick up the reels and skeins of silk. One, a skein of pink silk with which she had been working, he held in his hand a moment, and, suddenly, put in his pocket. After which he drifted absently to the hearthrug, and stood waiting for her, hat in hand. He was thinking of that moment in the wintry dawn when he had read her letter. The shock of emotion returned upon him. But what was he to do? What was really in her mind?—or, for the matter of that, in his own?