Basil and I sat on the terrace and "concentrated." It was my idea. "Will her to take him," I said. "I am," said Basil, looking at me. "She's so pretty," said I. "Lovely!" said Basil. "And it's such a _natural_ thing," I went on. "He has a lot of character, and he's gentle as well as firm." "I thank you," said Basil, and bowed. "I don't believe," I said severely, "that you are concentrating." The pony had got around behind the bench, and we lost them for a moment. But the little beast moved off just then, and it was like lifting a curtain. Poppy's head was on Vivian's shoulder. "Good old Viv!" said Basil. "Happy chap!" and sighed. * * * * * I met Vivian as I went down to luncheon. He was coming up three stairs at a time, but he stopped and drew me into a corner. "All fixed," he said. "You're a trump, Madge. The T. C. did it. She's promised all sorts of things." "And you?" I demanded. I thought he evaded my eye. "I?" he said. "Well, I've agreed not to interfere with her career. That's only reasonable." "And--Suffrage?" "She's going to be less militant," he said. "Of course, her conviction is the same. I want her to stand by her principle. I wouldn't respect her if she didn't." It didn't quite satisfy me. I knew Poppy. But he was so happy that I said nothing. After all, what could I say? Viv after all had never opposed Suffrage, except in its militant form--although I don't believe he had felt the necessity for it. But the trouble was that Poppy was a born militant, a born aggressor. And he had promised her the strength of her convictions! (I wrote it all to father that afternoon and his cablegram came when I was back in London again and settled. "No great revolution ever accomplished without bloodshed.") PART SECOND When Poppy and Vivian had been married and gone to Brittany, I went back to Daphne's. Daphne was very discouraging about them. I remember her standing by the fire and orating, with her tea cup in her hand. "There's a loss somewhere--bound to be," she said. Daphne is short and stout, and wears her hair short and curled over her head with an iron. "Either Suffrage loses her, or she loses a husband. I've watched it. It doesn't do, Maggie," which is her pet name for me. "A Suffragist as valuable as Poppy should not marry. You remember what Jane Willoughby's husband said to her, that he expected The Cause for his wife to be himself, and that if she'd rather raise votes for women than a family of children she would have to choose at once. When she asked him why she couldn't do both, he went to Africa!" "Without giving her an answer?" "Bless the child, there isn't any answer! It isn't wisdom that takes refuge in silence. It's silly, besotted, dumbheaded idiocy." "Viv isn't an imbecile," I said feebly. "He's a male," she snapped, and ran her fingers up through her fringe, so that she appeared to stand in a gale of wind.