"I'm not that sort—I've told you so." Her voice was sullen, her face strained.
"You've no call to talk like that—I'd lose my place if the Missus knew—it ain't fair..."
She wavered suddenly under the sentimental eyes.
"Well—I'll do it. A letter, I s'pose? To that 'ouse in the Terrace where you go night after night to meet yer ... 'Jill'!" She brought the name out with a snap.
"Wrong this time——" he still smiled, looking up at the moody face, faintly coloured under its curls of puffed-out, ashen hair.
"Jill is no friend of mine, my dear. She hates me—and it's mutual! This is a letter to her mother—business for the Woman's Cause."
The girl brightened visibly.
"Well—I 'ope we gets the vote. It's time we did and better wages. I'm sick of being called 'Skivvy! Skivvy!' by every shop boy in Chalk Farm. We'll make them 'skivvies' by-and-bye! I'm tired o' men—they're all alike! They gets the fun while we slave—it's a dog's life to be a girl!"
"Not always." Stephen answered softly. "Not when you're pretty—eh, Letty?"
He placed the letter in her hand, and, stooping quickly, stole a kiss.