“Why not, Horace?” demanded Boadicea with displeasure.
“Oh, well, I don’t like the male suffragettes. They look so like fowls. They remind me of vegetarians or temperance cranks. Some of the fellows in the club chaffed me awfully the last time I marched with them.”
“Oh, very well, Horace. Please yourself. Only I’m just a little disappointed in you.”
“I wouldn’t mind so much,” I went on, “if the women were inspiring, but they’re not. In the last demonstration I couldn’t help remarking that nearly all the women who marched were homely and unattractive, while those who watched the procession were often awfully pretty and interesting. Now, couldn’t you reverse the thing—let the homely ones line up and let the pretty ones march? Then I’d venture to bet you’d convert half the men on the spot.”
Boadicea stared. This was appalling heresy on my part; but I went on bravely.
“Another thing: why don’t they dress better? Do they think that the inspiration of a great cause justifies them in being dowdy? I tell you, well-fitting corsets and dainty shoes will do more for the freedom of woman than all the argument in the world. Coax the Vote from the men; don’t bully them. You’ll get it if you’re charming enough. Therein lies your real strength—not in your intellect, but in your charm.”
“Don’t tell me, Horace, you’re like all the rest of the men. A woman with a pretty face can turn you round her finger!”
“I’m sadly like most men, I find. I prefer charm and prettiness to character and intellect; just as in my youth I preferred bad boys to good. But, in any case, I refuse to march any more with these ‘vieux tableaux.’ Remember I have a sense of humour.”
“But all your enthusiasm? Your boiling indignation? Your thought of our wrongs?”
“Has all been overwhelmed by my sense of humour. One can only afford to take trivial things seriously, and serious things trivially.”