“My idea is that you should join in the glorious campaign against poverty and sin in the slums,” he continued. “I assure you that peace lies that way. My sister once had a love affair with a freethinker; she lost a great deal of weight at the time, and became almost hysterical. But she followed my advice, and now runs several social clubs in connection with my Church in the Brown Borough, North London, where the poor may buy cocoa and cake and listen to discourses by earnest Christian workers.” “And what does she weigh now?” asked the suffragette, after a pause. “She is a splendid example of a Christian woman,” said the priest, “a woman of unwavering faith, indefatigable in charitable works.” “I think I shall come down to your parish as an antidote,” said the suffragette, “the only sort of Anti I ever could tolerate.” Certainly my suffragette is not worthy to be the heroine of a book. I must apologise for presenting a nature so undiluted by any of the qualities that go to make good fiction. A pun, I admit, is the last straw, but it is unfortunately a straw occasionally clutched at by erring humanity, though rarely admitted by the novelist. “I should not advise you to choose the Brown Borough for the scene of your endeavour,” said the priest hurriedly. “There is little scope for workers unconnected with a church there. I had in my mind for you the neighbourhood of Southwark, or Walworth, South London. Much more suitable, yerce, yerce. The Brown Borough is very unhealthy for those unaccustomed to London slums.” “Yet your sister gained weight and lost hysteria there,” said the suffragette maliciously. “I myself might be said to have room for improvement on both these points.” “I strongly advise you to choose another parish,” said the priest, bitterly repenting of his zeal. “So much excellent work has been done in the Brown Borough that the majority of the people ought by now to be on the way to find salvation, both in body and soul.” “That’s why I propose to come as an antidote,” said the suffragette. The conversation closed itself. They opened the _Spectator_ and _Votes for Women_ simultaneously. London provided the sort of weather it reserves for those who return from sun-blessed lands. It was a day with rain in the past and rain in the future, but never rain in the present. The sort of day that makes you feel glad you thought of bringing your umbrella, and then sorry to find you left it in the last bus. The streets looked like wet slates splashed with tears.