"Mother hopes you've all you want? She's feeling a little more rested. I think I shall keep her in bed a week."
"I'm afraid that's impossible." Stephen sneered. "She's going to speak at a meeting to-morrow, and on Friday we're off to Leeds—for the great Demonstration." ("One back," he said to himself, as he saw the girl's mouth tighten.)
"It's an odd thing," said Jill shortly, "that rest's not included in Woman's Rights."
"Not until we get the Vote." Somerfield eyed with suspicion a scraggy, blackened object borne by Lizzie toward his little hostess.
"Silver Grill," she explained, "cooked 'à point' by your treasure-trove. Like a bit?" She dug the fork into the charred meat and smiled.
"It's best Canterbury," she added, with a reminiscence from below. "You know, we have to economize or there'd be nothing for the Cause."
Stephen's temper began to slide.
"Look here, Jill. Don't talk of things you're too young yet to understand."
He turned the unpalatable fragments over angrily on his plate.
"Potatoes?—Onions?" Her voice was sweet. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Stephen. I quite forgot you couldn't eat them! But then, you see, I didn't expect you. If you'd only given us a little warning. If you'd told me, for instance, yesterday—or was it Monday you lunched with us? No. Sunday supper. How stupid I am!—I never can remember dates."