“Probably,” said the gardener. He had absolutely no grounds for his confidence except the ground of youth, and that, of course, is only a quicksand. But the funny thing was she came. For she cried all her current stock of militancy away on Thursday night, and by three o’clock on Good Friday afternoon she was on the door-step of 21 Penny Street. “Even if slavery and polygamy become the fashion,” she argued characteristically, “Scottie Brown will still be wrongfully detained in quarantine.” It was not to Scottie Brown that her thoughts turned when the maid told her that Mr. Gardener had gone to the country for Easter. “But I must see him,” said the suffragette, who was a little drunk with the bitter beverage of tears. “It’s impossible,” said the maid. “I tell you—he’s away.” The word “impossible” as usual acted as a challenge. “Might I have his address?” said the caller. After consultation with Miss Shakespeare the address was produced, and the suffragette’s decision made. “The Red Place.... His friend lives there—Mrs. Rust’s son. Anyway there’s no harm in going to a country hotel for Easter.” It was quite an advance for the suffragette to be human enough to consider whether there was any harm or not. So she went home and had a ten minutes’ interview with the mustard-coloured portmanteau, and then she put it and herself into a third-class carriage marked Girton Magna. At sunset she arrived at the Red Place, and by luck extraordinary managed to procure a small attic which the tide of holiday-makers had passed by. She saw the gardener first at dinner-time, and he looked almost as incredible to her as she did to him. It always surprises me to see a person looking exactly like themselves after absence. When the gardener first saw the suffragette, he swallowed a spoonful of soup which was very much too hot, and rose. Courtesy was in the middle of a remark, and looked surprised to see him go. “I knew I should hear or see something of you soon,” said the gardener, shaking the suffragette’s hand as usual an excessive number of times. “And yet I’m awfully surprised too,” admitted the suffragette. “Just an Easter holiday?” suggested the gardener carelessly. “But what luck you chose the Red Place.” “It wasn’t exactly luck. I knew you were here.” Tears had been trembling in the gardener’s eyes since the swallowing of the soup, he very nearly shed them now. “Waiter,” he called, “move that lady’s place to our table.” The suffragette was excited and flushed. She looked almost pretty. “I can’t imagine why I came,” she said when the change was effected and greetings had been exchanged. “I think I must have come in delirium. The woman I used to be never comes into the country except on business, and, in the case of friends, makes a principle of ‘out of sight, out of mind.’” “I hope you left that woman behind—permanently,” said the gardener.