There was a long silence. Then the suffragette said, “Women seem to be extraordinarily cheap in the market. They hire themselves out to the man who hits the hardest. It makes one almost tired of being a woman.” “Look ’ere ...” said the patient wrathfully, but she stopped there. Presently she sat up and said, “I’m goin’ to doctor’s now. And if you ain’t still too _tired_, miss, perhaps you’ll see me as fur as the ’orspital....” So the suffragette laid hold of the Closed Door of the Brown Borough, by the handle of her fanatic determination. She never saw the impossibility of victory. It was the earliest of the early spring, and there was hope in the air. For many weeks hope was her only luxury. With it she sweetened her bread and margarine when she rose, to the tune of it she munched her nightly tripe and onions. She saw the mirage of the end in sight, and with her great faith she almost made it real. She was a blind optimist where women were concerned. On the initiative of the priest’s sister, she attended the Church Girls’ Club three evenings a week. On her own initiative she played the Church false, and established in its own field of labour, behind its back, the foundation of her task. It was originally Miss Wigsky’s fault. Miss Wigsky was a girl of practical energy, a warring spirit, a potential suffragette. She had long been a militant resister of the Church Club ideal, but when the suffragette became one of its regular adherents, Miss Wigsky joined it at once. Hers was the active responsibility for what followed, and ’Tilda’s the passive. I think I have mentioned ’Tilda before, though not by name. She was a small white creature who had committed the absurdity of losing her heart to the suffragette at first sight, and had sealed her admiration by laying bare the letter of her chap at their first meeting. The moment of cocoa-drinking was always the moment of confidences. It was during this comparatively peaceful time that the suffragette made friends, and it was at this point that ’Tilda one evening approached her. “Jenny Wigsky’s a funny gel,” said ’Tilda. “She’s bin talkin’ about you, miss. I got a new job the other day, very little money—piece-work—on’y shillin’ a diy if I work ever so ’ard. I ses to Jenny, ‘I’m a good gel I am, to tike less money than I’m worth just to ’elp my muvver.’ But Jenny ses I’m a very bad gel—she ses you ses as it’s wicked to tike bad money.” “I didn’t say it was wicked—I wouldn’t use the word,” said the suffragette. “But I do think it’s selfish. Every time a girl takes too little money, she may be forcing another girl to take less. You know it’s partly your fault that women’s wages are so bad. You can feel now that you’ve had a share in the work of sweating women, ’Tilda.” “Didn’t I tell you?” said Miss Wigsky. “Why don’t you do as I do, an’ stick out for ten?” “But you’re not gettin’ it,” objected ’Tilda.