"You don't say so. Bad luck! I always thought Stephen a wrong 'un. How's Jill herself?"
A pause.
"Oh—all right," but Bethune frowned. "Jolly plucky about it all. I fancy they're rather in low water. It's between ourselves, you understand. But she's left College for good now and it seems to me she's taken on most of the house work at home. They only keep one servant."
"What a shame!" came from McTaggart, busily brushing back his hair. "It's a thousand pities her mother gives up all her time to Suffrage work. She might consider her family. I can't understand the attraction. Seems to me it's like drink—when a woman really takes to it there's no earthly stopping her!"
"I quite agree," said Bethune, "I'm sorry for Jill. And the boy, too," he added somewhat hastily. His pale face was slightly flushed. "You ready?"
He picked up his hat as his friend reappeared. "It's stopped raining——" he glanced at the window. "We've had an awfully wet season—nothing like it since the Flood. I nearly started a motor boat—cheap trips in Piccadilly!"
They clattered downstairs together and out on to the shining pavement.
"We'd better take a bus, I suppose," said McTaggart—"how long has this strike been on?"
"About a fortnight——" Bethune laughed. "I expect you're glad to get back to England?"
But the other answered seriously. "Well—I am. It's an odd thing——" he sniffed up the air, damp and smoky, and smiled to himself, his eyes bright. "But there's something about London, you know..."