The suffragette became red.
“I’m sorry the postmistress is a friend of yours,” she said. “Because she can’t be a very admirable friend. She herself admits that she only paid the girl three-and-six a week, with no food except a cup of tea at mid-day.”
“Poor wages, yerce, yerce. But far better than idleness.”
“Infinitely worse,” said the suffragette.
A rather feverish silence fell for a moment. I think the priest said a prayer. At any rate he thought he did.
“Surely you have some sympathy with our aims in this Club. Surely you agree that it is a worthy ideal to try to raise the level of the young womanhood of the Borough. Surely you see that we cannot do this unless we keep the girls in good uplifting company. Jane Wigsky is a bad girl. One must draw the line between good and bad.”
“One may draw a line, but one needn’t build a barrier. And even to draw a line, one should have very good sight.”
“I think I hardly need your advice on the management of a parish I have served for twenty-two years. If this were my Club I should request you to find some other outlet for your energies. But my sister is very obstinate. Good evening.”
A certain amount of success attended the efforts of the Suffragette Girls. By the end of that week, three girls had been given a rise for the asking, the extent of it varying from sixpence to two shillings. Several had got a promise of a rise when work should be less slack, only three had taken the drastic step of leaving their employment. The piece-workers with few exceptions were working for a wage which seemed unalterable. An envelope-folder raised her earnings from three halfpence a thousand to twopence. But as a rule there is no labour groove so deep as the piece-worker’s.
It was on the Thursday night before Good Friday that the suffragette, dressed in a dressing-gown, sat before her fire remembering the simplest character in this simple book—Scottie Brown.