"Won't you come to tea with me some day next week?" "Thank you. I should like to. But my maid is very ill. Else I should be in London." "Oh, I'm very sorry. May I come to you?" Delia thanked her coldly. She could have beaten herself for a rude, ungracious creature; yet for the life of her she could not command another manner. Susy drew back. She and Winnington began to talk again, ranging over persons and incidents quite unknown to Delia--the frank talk, full of matter of comrades in a public service. And again Delia watched them acutely--jealous--yet not in any ordinary sense. When Susy turned back towards the Rectory, Delia said abruptly-- "She's helped you a great deal?" "Susy!" He went off at score, ending with--"What France and I shall do without her, I don't know. If we could only get more women--_scores more women_--to do the work! There we sit, perched up aloft on the Council, and what we want are the women to advise us, and the women's hands--_to do the little things_--which make just all the difference!" She was silent a moment, and then said sorely--"I suppose that means, that if we did all the work we might do--we needn't bother about the vote." He turned upon with animation-- "I vow I wasn't thinking about the vote!" "Miss Amberley doesn't seem to bother about it." Winnington's voice shewed amusement. "I can't imagine Susy a suff. It simply isn't in her." "I know plenty of suffragists just as good and useful as she is," said Delia, bristling. Winnington did not immediately reply. They had left the village behind, and were walking up the Maumsey lane in a gathering darkness, each electrically conscious of the other. At last he said in a changed tone-- "Have I been saying anything to wound you? I didn't mean it." She laughed unsteadily. "You never say anything to wound me. I was only--a kind of fretful porcupine--standing up for my side." "And the last thought in my mind to-night was to attack your 'side,'" he protested. Her tremulous sense drank in the gentleness of his voice, the joy of his strong, enveloping presence, and the sweetness of her own surrender which had brought him back to her, the thought of it vibrating between them, unspoken. Until, suddenly, at the door of the Abbey, Winnington halted and took her by both hands. "I must go home. Good-night. Have you got books to amuse you?" "Plenty." "Poor child!--all alone! But you'll have Lady Tonbridge to-morrow." "How do you know? She mayn't come." "I'm going there now. I'll make her. You--you won't be doing any more embroidery to-night?" He looked at her slyly. Delia laughed out. "There!--when one tries to be feminine, that's how you mock!" "'_Mock_!' I admired. Good-night!--I shall be here to-morrow." He was gone--into the darkness.