“What on earth did you do with her last night?” continued Samuel solo.
“Can’t she ship as stewardess?” asked the gardener.
Poor suffragette! But in the eyes of men one woman is much the same as another. Every woman, I gather, is a potential stewardess. This is woman’s sphere when it takes to the water. The gardener thought he knew all about women. All her virtues he considered that she shared with man, but her vices he looked upon as peculiarly her own.
“The boat sails to-morrow,” Mr. Abel observed reproachfully. “The stewardesses have been engaged for weeks.”
“Why can’t you leave her behind, what?” asked Mr. Rust. “Women do far too much travelling about nowadays. There’s such a thing as broadening the mind too far, you know. Sometimes, like elastic, it snaps. A lot of women I know have snapped.”
“Yes,” said the gardener. “But it would be better for England if I took her away.”
This spark nearly put an end to the career of Mr. Abel. He squeezed the gardener’s hand in an agony of appreciation.
“I won’t go without her,” said the gardener, rather surprising himself. He gave Mr. Abel no answering smile. He was too busy reproaching himself.
“Abel,” implored Mr. Rust. “I simply can’t let old Mrs. Paul go without some one to keep the Red Place in her line of thought. This is obviously the man for the job. My career hangs on you. Be worthy. That is—be a sport, now, what?”
“I’ll find your wife a berth,” said Mr. Abel, accompanying each word with a dramatic tap on the gardener’s arm. “The boat is not full.”