“But if all suffragettes were like you, it would certainly be an argument against the franchise. For what would become of England?”
“God forbid that all suffragettes should be like me. I am a fanatic, a rather silly thing to be.”
“I know what you are waiting for,” said the gardener. “Heaven! you want so much beside the Vote, and you’ll never get what you want this side of heaven.”
“God forbid that I should want heaven,” said the suffragette. “Heaven is not made for women. Why, the very archangels are men.”
“Why won’t you have me? We could get married to-morrow. Why not?”
“Because I am too busy. Because there is a superfluity of women, and as I am not a real woman—only an idea—I’d better sit out. Because I am conceited and couldn’t bear my pride to have a fall—at your expense. Because you don’t know me and I don’t know you. Because it’s better to live alone with an ideal than coupled with a fact. Now I’m sick of talking about myself, it makes me feel sugary, as though I’d been swallowing golden syrup neat.”
“But before you retire into your militancy, tell me,” said the gardener, “do you think you will ever recognise this bond between us?”
“There is no bond between us.”
“There is love between us.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not mutual.”