Delia took her own and her housemaid's tickets for London, saw her companion established, and then, preferring to be alone, stepped into an empty carriage herself. She had hardly disposed her various packages, and the train was within two minutes of starting, when a tall man came quickly along the platform, inspecting the carriages as he passed. Delia did not see him till he was actually at her window. In another moment he had opened and closed the door, and had thrown down his newspapers and overcoat on the seat. The train was just starting, and Delia, crimson, found herself mechanically shaking hands with Mark Winnington. "You're going up to town?" She stammered it. "I didn't know--" "I shall be in town for a few days. Are you quite comfortable? A footwarmer?" For the day was cold and frosty, with a bitter east wind. "I'm quite warm, thank you." The train ran out of the station, and they were soon in the open country. Delia leant back in her seat, silent, conscious of her own hurrying pulses, but determined to control them. She would have liked to be indignant--to protest that she was being persecuted and coerced. But the recollection of their last meeting, and the sheer, inconvenient, shameful, joy of his presence there, opposite, interposed. Winnington himself was quite cool; there were no signs whatever of any intention to renew their Friday's conversation. His manner and tone were just as usual. Some business at the Home Office, connected with his County Council work, called him to town. He should be staying at his Club in St. James's St. Alice Matheson also would be in town. "Shall we join for a theatre, one night?" he asked her. She felt suddenly angered. Was she never to be believed, never to be taken seriously? "To-morrow, Mr. Mark, is the meeting of Parliament." "That I am aware of." "The day after, I shall probably be in prison!" She fronted him bravely, though, as he saw, with an effort. He paused a moment, but showed no astonishment. "I hope not. I think not," he said, quietly. Delia took up the evening paper she had just bought at the station, opened it, and looked at the middle page. "There are our plans," she said, defiantly, handing it to him. "Thank you. I have already seen it." But he again read through attentively the paragraph to which she pointed him. It was headed "Militant Plans for To-morrow." A procession of five hundred women was to march on the Houses of Parliament, at the moment of the King's Speech. "We insist"--said the Manifesto issued from the offices of the League of Revolt--"upon our right of access to the King, or failing His Majesty, to the Prime Minister. We mean business and we shall be armed." Winnington pointed to the word "armed." "With stones--I presume?" "Well, not revolvers, I hope!" said Delia. "I should certainly shoot myself."