"Napoleon and the capture of London," I murmured.
"Oh well, you don't think I go in for a thing unless I'm going to win, do you? When we get the vote, we shall work to secure as large a share of public life as men enjoy, and we shall put women on an equality with men in things like divorce," she added between closed teeth.
"Suppose for the sake of argument you're beaten? I imagine even Joyce Davenant occasionally meets with little checks?"
"Oh yes. When Joyce was seven, she wanted to go skating, and her father said the ice wouldn't bear and she mustn't go. Joyce went, and fell in and nearly got drowned. And when she got home, her father was very angry and whipped her with a crop."
"Well?"
"That's all. Only—he said afterwards that she took it rather well, there was no crying."
I wondered then, as I have always wondered, whether she in any way appreciated the seriousness of the warfare she was waging on society.
"A month in the second division at Holloway is one thing...." I began.
"It'll be seven years' penal servitude if I'm beaten," she interrupted. Her tone was innocent alike of flippancy and bravado.
"Forty votes aren't worth that. I've got three, so I ought to know."