"These men-things aren't helpful, are they, Elsie?"
"I'm a good destructive critic," I said in self-justification.
"There are so many without you," Joyce answered, laying her hand on my arm. "Listen, Mr. Merivale. You've probably noticed there's very little argument about the suffrage; everything that can be said on either side has already been said a thousand times. You're going to refuse us the vote. Good. I should do the same in your place. There are more of us than there are of you, and we shall swamp you if we all get the vote. You can't give it to some of us and not others, because the brain is not yet born that can think of a perfect partial franchise. Will you give it to property and leave out the factory workers? Will you give it to spinsters and leave out the women who bear children to the nation? Will you give it to married women and leave out the unprotected spinsters? It's all or none: I say all, you say none. You say I'm not fit for a vote, I say I am. We reach an impasse, and might argue till daybreak without getting an inch further forward. We're fighting to swamp you, you're fighting to keep your head above water. We're reduced to a trial of strength."
She leant back in her chair, and I presented her with a dish of salted almonds, partly as a reward, partly because I never eat them myself.
"I admire your summary of the situation," I said. "You've only omitted one point. In a trial of strength between man and woman, man is still the stronger."
"And woman the more resourceful."
"Perhaps."
"She's certainly the more ruthless," Joyce answered, as she finished her coffee and drew on her gloves.
"War à outrance," I commented as we left the dining-room. "And what after the war?"
"When we've got the vote...." she began.