He shook his head, smiling. "I didn't agree with you. I advise you to look up some of those things you said. But you speak very well. Good-night." She looked at him angrily, gathered up her skirt with a rattle, in a small hand, and disappeared. He presently turned back towards Buckingham Gate, and in a narrow Westminster street, as he passed the side of a high factory building, suddenly there emerged from a door-way a number of women and girls, who had evidently been working over-time. Some of them broke at once into loud talk and laughter, as though in reaction from the confinement and tension of their work, some--quite silent--turned their tired faces to him as they passed him; and some looked boldly, provocatively at the handsome man, who on his side was clearly observing them. They were of all types, but the majority of the quite young girls were pale and stunted, shewing the effect of long hours, and poor food. The coarse or vicious faces were few; many indeed were marked by a modest or patient gentleness. The thin line of hurrying forms disappeared into darkness and distance, some one way, some another; and Winnington was left to feel that in what he had seen--this everyday incident of a London street--he had been aptly reminded of what a man who has his occupation and dwelling amid rural scenes and occupations too readily forgets--that toiling host of women, married and unmarried, which modern industry is every day using, or devouring, or wasting. The stream of lives rushes day by day through the industrial rapids; some of it passing on to quiet and fruitful channels beyond the roar, and some lost and churned for ever in the main tumult of the river. This new claim upon women, on the part of society, in addition to the old claims of home and motherhood--this vast industrial claim--must it not change and modify everything in time?--depress old values, create new? "The vote!--give us the vote! and all will be well. More wages, more food, more joy, more share in this glorious world!--that's what the vote means--give us the vote!" Such, in effect, had been the cry of that half-mad speaker in Whitehall, herself marked and injured by the economic struggle. The appeal echoed in Winnington's heart. And Delia seemed to be at his side, raising her eager eyes to his, pressing him for admission. Had he, indeed, thought enough of these things?--taken enough to heart this new and fierce struggle of women with life and circumstance, that is really involved in the industrial organisation of the modern world?