"What can we _do_?" said Miss Toogood at last, in a low voice. Her eyes stared out of her kind old face, which had grown white. "Ah, leave that to us!" said Miss Marvell, in another voice, the dry organising voice, which was her usual one. And dropping all emotion and excitement, she began rapidly to question three out of the four women as to the neighbourhood, the opinions of individuals and classes, the strength in it of the old Suffrage societies, the presence or absence of propaganda. They answered her eagerly. They all felt themselves keyed to a higher note since she had entered the room. They had got to business; they felt themselves a power, the rank and file of an "army with banners," under direction. Even Delia, clearly, was in the same relation towards this woman whom the outer world only knew as her--presumably--paid companion. She was questioned, put right, instructed with the rest of them. Only no one noticed that Marion Andrews took little or no part in the conversation. An autumn wind raged outside, and the first of those dead regiments of leaves which would soon be choking the lanes were pattering against the windows. Inside, the fire leapt as the daylight faded, helped by a couple of lamps, for Maumsey knew no electricity, and Delia, under Gertrude's prompting, had declared against the expense of putting it in. In the dim illumination the faces of the six women emerged, typical all of them of the forces behind the revolutionary wing of the woman's movement. Enthusiasms of youth and age--hardships of body and spirit--rancour and generous hope--sore heart and untrained mind--fanatical brain and dreaming ignorance--love unsatisfied, and energies unused--they were all there, and all hanging upon, conditioned by something called "the vote," conceived as the only means to a new heaven and a new earth. * * * * * When Delia had herself dismissed her guests into the darkness of the October evening, she returned thoughtfully to where Gertrude Marvell was standing by the drawing-room fire, reading a letter. "You gave them all something to do except that Miss Andrews, Gertrude? I wonder why you left her out?" "Oh, I had a talk with her before." The tone was absent, and the speaker went on reading her letter. "When you took her into the back drawing-room?" The slightest possible flicker passed through Gertrude's drooped eyelids. "She was telling me a lot about her home-life--poor oppressed thing!" Delia asked no more. But she felt a vague discomfort. Presently Gertrude put down her letter, and turned towards her. "May I have that cheque, dear--before post-time? If you really meant it?" "Certainly." Delia went to her writing-table, opened a drawer and took out her cheque-book. A laugh--conscious and unsteady--accompanied the dipping of her pen into the ink. "I wonder what he'll say?" "Who?" "Mr. Winnington--when I send him all the bills to be paid." "Isn't he there to pay the bills?"