“Let’s dispense with the ’buses and taxis,” suggested the suffragette. “Let’s forget London and get country-wet.”
“You’ll catch your death of cold,” said the gardener delightedly, and presently they started.
“I don’t really want to be introduced to your friend,” said the suffragette. “Only I wanted a chance to speak to you alone. Do you know, beneath a militant exterior I am horribly shy?”
“It’s obvious,” retorted the gardener.
“Is it?” asked the suffragette, annoyed, and relapsed into silence for a moment.
“I wanted to tell you ...” she began again presently, “that I beg your pardon for coming here. It’s unforgivable of me. You know, as regards men, I’m not a woman at all; I haven’t the unselfish instincts that other women have. I came because I had—reached the limit—and I wanted a friend....”
“Well, you didn’t come far wrong,” said the gardener. “I love you.”
“I didn’t think of your feelings at all, which is only another proof that it is no good your loving me.”
“May I take the risk?”
The suffragette stopped, and stood leaning against the rain-whipped wind. Rain was trapped in the mesh of her soft hair. She clenched her fists upon her breast.