The suffragette was so much startled to hear herself addressed in this unusual vein that she very nearly cried. It is rare to have tears so near so horny a surface as hers. “My dear ...” said the priest. “I think you forget my position of authority in this parish. You also forget the pure young souls committed to your care in this club. Yerce, yerce.” He actually imagined the factory girls to be as innocent as himself. To him the words youth and innocence were indivisible. “Oh, nonsense, Christopher,” said his sister. “She doesn’t necessarily want to help with this club, and even if she did she can’t convey infection to the girls by playing the piano to them.” “I do not expect she does play the piano,” said the priest lamely. “You do play, don’t you? You have such pretty hands.” After that, of course, the suffragette felt as though she could have played Strauss to please her. As a matter of fact she had little real articulate gift for music, but she never forgot a tune she had heard, and found no difficulty in rendering the songs that always sang in her head, outwardly instead of inwardly. The priest’s sister was not musical. Nor was she critical. She considered that the Brown Borough had in this newcomer found something it had lacked. The suffragette, who possessed certain secret springs of conceit, was to some extent of the same opinion. And by the end of the evening the majority of the girls shared this view. “Do you know a Mrs. Smith?” asked the suffragette, as she said good-bye. “I know perhaps five hundred Mrs. Smiths,” said the priest’s sister. “She wears a plush coat, and a baby, and a little girl of hers died in October.” “About two hundred and fifty out of the five hundred wear plush coats, and babies, and little girls that die.” “I wonder what surnames are for,” said the suffragette pettishly, “since they have ceased to distinguish one person from another?” “If you come to me to-morrow,” said the priest’s sister, “I will give you the names of various women who want visiting. If your Mrs. Smith needs you, you will soon find her, if you live in the Brown Borough.” The suffragette was a rash woman. She always abode by her own first choice. Before she went to see the priest’s sister in the morning, she found herself a Brown Borough lodging. She did this by the simple device of knocking on the door of the first house she saw that displayed a notice, “Apartment.” “Now then, wot’s the matter?” asked the lady who opened the door. The suffragette, though impossible to silence, was easy to abash. And there is certainly something disheartening in such a salutation. However, she suggested that the notice in the window might excuse an intrusion.