“I never suggested it. How is London?”
Her face hardened a little, and her mouth lost its exquisite delight.
“Being here, I realise how I hate London to live and struggle in. What is the use of pretending? I tried my strength there, and I was beaten. So now——”
She paused, shrinking instinctively from telling him that she had become one of the marching, militant women. Fernhill, and this man’s presence, seemed to have smothered the aggressive spirit—rendered it superfluous.
His eyes waited.
“Well?”
“I am on a walking tour with friends.”
“Painting?”
“No, proselytising.”
“As a Suffragette?”