“It’s impossible,” said the maid. “I tell you—he’s away.”
The word “impossible” as usual acted as a challenge.
“Might I have his address?” said the caller.
After consultation with Miss Shakespeare the address was produced, and the suffragette’s decision made.
“The Red Place.... His friend lives there—Mrs. Rust’s son. Anyway there’s no harm in going to a country hotel for Easter.”
It was quite an advance for the suffragette to be human enough to consider whether there was any harm or not.
So she went home and had a ten minutes’ interview with the mustard-coloured portmanteau, and then she put it and herself into a third-class carriage marked Girton Magna.
At sunset she arrived at the Red Place, and by luck extraordinary managed to procure a small attic which the tide of holiday-makers had passed by.
She saw the gardener first at dinner-time, and he looked almost as incredible to her as she did to him. It always surprises me to see a person looking exactly like themselves after absence.
When the gardener first saw the suffragette, he swallowed a spoonful of soup which was very much too hot, and rose. Courtesy was in the middle of a remark, and looked surprised to see him go.