“Naughty boy,” said Courtesy, helping herself generously to cake. “You are beastly rude. And you’re a naughty gal, too, you suffragette. You ought to know how your husband likes his tea.”
“But he’s not my husband,” said the suffragette.
The gardener sat with a bun arrested half-way to his mouth. He had lived a self-contained existence, and had never before had a pose of his dismantled by an alien hand. The experience was most novel. He liked the suffragette more and more because she was unexpected.
“Nonsense,” said Courtesy. “You’re feverish. You’ll tell me what you’ll be sorry for, in a minute.”
“It’s true; and I’m far from sorry for it,” said the suffragette. “It’s almost too good to be true, but it is. I’m still alone. But because he thought I was a menace to England’s safety, he brought me away—by force.”
“Perfectly true,” corroborated the gardener.
“You babies,” said Courtesy. “It’s lucky for you it’s only me to hear you.”
“It’s not a secret,” said the gardener. “I’ve just been talking about it to Mrs. Rust.”
“And what did she say?” asked Courtesy and the suffragette together.
“She said, ‘Good.’”