The woman laughed again, and her head suddenly lolled down upon her breast. A little drip of blood ran down upon the floor. “You are making a mess on the floor,” said the suffragette. There was a magic in the words. I suppose their power lay in their utter futility. The woman stood aside. “Now let me get you to bed,” said the suffragette as she entered. But there was no bed. There were a dresser, a small table, and a chair. There was also a man, noisily asleep upon the chair. “Ran me eye agin the corner of the tible,” said the woman. “How very unlucky,” said the suffragette, “considering the table’s practically the only thing in the room. Except the man.” She took the back of the chair and tipped it forward. She tilted it to such an angle that nobody in their senses could have remained seated in it. But a guardian angel seems to look after the drunk at the expense of the sober. When because she was not a professional weight-lifter, the suffragette had to let the chair revert to its natural position, the man was still comfortably asleep. The woman fainted in the corner. “Wake up, you damned pig!” said the suffragette, with the utmost strength of her soft voice, and she struck his shoulder with all the weight of a perfectly useless fist. “Shall I fetch a policeman?” asked Miss Wigsky. “The Law’s no good,” said the suffragette frowning. “I don’t believe there is a law against a man being drunk in the only chair. Do you think you could borrow a cushion or two from your mother, so that we could make the woman comfy on the floor?” By the time Miss Wigsky returned with the relic of a pillow, the suffragette had bathed the blood from the eye. “Woz this?” inquired the woman, opening the surviving eye upon the appearance of Miss Wigsky. “Woz this? Pillers? Tike ’em awiy. I ’aven’t bin to bed in the diytime for twenty years, nor I ain’t goin’ to begin now....” “You must lie down,” said the suffragette. “And I will fetch the doctor to sew up your eye.” “Bless yer ...” crowed the invalid. “S’long as I’ve got legs to walk to the doctor on, you kin bet yer life ’e won’t walk to me. I’ll go’n see ’im, soon’s as I stop bein’ all of a tremble.” “I’ll come with you.” “As you please.” Miss Wigsky escaped. “Why do you allow that man to be drunk in here?” asked the suffragette after a pause. “’E don’t arsk my leave.” “Is he your husband?” “No. ’E is in a manner of speakin’. But I wouldn’t really marry a soppy bloke like thet.” “Then why do you have soppy blokes crowding you out of your own furniture?” “Ow, one must ’ave a man about the plice. Feels more ’omely-like.” “Does he work for you?” “I don’t fink.” “Is he very good to you?” The woman, not unnaturally, began to get restive. “’Oo ye’re gettin’ at? Nat’rally a man ain’t soothin’ syrup when ’e come ’ome as my young man come ’ome an hour ago. ’E’s better’n some.”