"Thank you. I have already seen it."
But he again read through attentively the paragraph to which she pointed him. It was headed "Militant Plans for To-morrow." A procession of five hundred women was to march on the Houses of Parliament, at the moment of the King's Speech. "We insist"—said the Manifesto issued from the offices of the League of Revolt—"upon our right of access to the King, or failing His Majesty, to the Prime Minister. We mean business and we shall be armed."
Winnington pointed to the word "armed."
"With stones—I presume?"
"Well, not revolvers, I hope!" said Delia. "I should certainly shoot myself."
Tension broke up in slightly hysterical laughter. She was already in better spirits. There was something exciting—exhilarating even—in the duel between herself and Winnington, which was implied in the conversation. His journey up to town, the look in his grey eyes meant—"I shall prevent you from doing what you are intending to do." But he could not prevent it. If he was the breakwater, she was the storm-wave, driven by the gale—by the wind from afar, of which she felt herself the sport, and sometimes the victim—without its changing her purpose in the least.
"Only I shall not refuse food!" she thought. "I shall spare him that. I shall serve my sentence. It won't be long."
But afterwards? Would she then be free? Free to follow Gertrude or not, according to her judgment? Would she have "purged" her promise—paid her shot—recovered the governance of herself?
Her thoughts discussed the future, when, all in a moment, Winnington, watching her from behind his Times, saw a pale startled look. It seemed to be caused by something in the landscape. He turned his eyes to the window and saw that they were passing an old manor house, with a gabled front, standing above the line, among trees. What could that have had to do with the sudden contraction of the beautiful brow, the sudden look of terror—or distress? The house had a certain resemblance to Monk Lawrence. Had it reminded her of that speech in the Latchford marketplace from which he was certain she had recoiled, no less than he?
"You'll let me take you to the flat? I've been over it once, but I should like to see it's in order."