“I’m sure God never made it so,” said the suffragette. “He made men and women, and nothing else. He made man in His own image, and left woman to make herself. And she’s doing it. That’s what makes us all so proud to be women.” “I’m not proud of bein’ a woman. I’m sick of it,” said Mrs. Wigsky; but the girl said, “You do talk beautiful, miss. I b’leeve I’m a little bit proud. Anywiy, I wouldn’t be a man for somefink.” “Men,” sniffed Mrs. Wigsky. “It’s men wot does all the ’arm. An’ yet you carn’ get along wivout ’em altogether. They’re so ’elpless.” (I hope you notice this truth, one of the few unposed truths in this book. Man is potentially a son, and woman is potentially a mother; woman depends on the dependence of man. The spinster, if pathetic at all, is pathetic because she has no one to look after, not because there is no one to look after her. Bear in mind that the conventional spinster keeps a canary as a substitute for a husband.) “All the same,” said the suffragette, “men are proud of being men, and that is one of the greatest virtues. I don’t suppose there is a man in London who would be general to a Post Office lady at three-and-six a week and no food.” This was thought to be supremely witty, and the suffragette rose to depart on the crest of a ripple of popularity. The girl followed her half-way downstairs. “You fink that I was roight then to chuck that job, miss?” The suffragette at that moment parted company with Father Christopher. “Certainly I think you were right. It’s very wrong to take less money than you’re worth. I’d rather lend your mother money to get on with until you can get a worth-while job than let a friend of mine go so cheap as three-and-six a week. You can give your mother this address, and tell her I’ll come to see her again very soon.” As she reached the first landing, she became aware of a fresh twist in the maze. I think drama of a rather sombre variety is the very life of the Brown Borough, and I defy you to thread its streets or climb its stairways for half a day without meeting some Thing you never met before. The doorway on the first landing was practically filled by a woman, whose most surprising characteristic was that her right eye was filled with blood. The blood was running down on to the breast of her dress. “I’m feelin’ that queer,” said the woman. “It’s the sight o’ blood allus mikes me queer.” “You must let me help you,” said the suffragette. “You must let me put you on your bed.” The woman laughed and remained swaying in the doorway. “Bedder standen’ ...” she mumbled hysterically. She was an enormous woman, and effectually blocked the doorway. For one mad moment the suffragette meditated climbing over her. An obstacle always had an irresistible fascination for her. “Don’t be so silly,” said the suffragette. “Let me come in at once. I am here to help. Stand aside.”