This well-worn accusation touches a familiar chord in the ear of any rebel. It opened one of the suffragette’s eyes. She had black eyebrows which suggested that she might have fine eyes, but she had not. When her eyes were shut you only saw the hopeful suggestion.
“Come, come,” said Miss Brown, handing Mr. Wise’s brandy flask back to him, and becoming aware that her petticoat was bare to the gaze of an unmarried gentleman and a negro inspector. “Might I trouble you to lift the young lady on to a chair?” she added, as she rose.
Seven stone of political agitator takes but little time to move.
“A most eventful journey,” said the lady novelist.
Miss Brown, now decently seated on a chair, stroked the suffragette’s hand. “Are you going to friends, my child?” she asked.
“No, enemies, I expect,” said the suffragette drearily.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must know where you are going,” said the novelist severely.
“Booked to Greyville,” said the inspector, who had picked up her ticket, and was thoughtfully clipping it all over.