“No. That’s the worst of it. They’re both here. Each acts as conscience while the other one’s in power. Why wasn’t one brought into the world by oneself?” “Why, weren’t you?” asked Courtesy; “were you twins?” “I still am. One of me is quite a good sort, really, almost an ‘Oh, my dear’ girl. She is the one who was described in the paper as ‘Boadicea Smith, a young woman of prepossessing appearance.’ The reporter went on to say that the name was probably assumed—(which it was)—and that he knew who I really was—(which he didn’t). He hinted that I was a deluded patrician incog. Do you know, I treasure that paragraph as if it were a love-letter. It’s the only compliment I ever had.” “I should like to shake the hand of that reporter,” said the gardener. “But after that he referred to me all through as ‘Smith,’ without prefix, which is the sign of a criminal.” “The puppy!” exclaimed the gardener. “What were you doing to get into the paper?” asked Courtesy sternly. “I never get into the paper.” “It’s inconceivable that you should get into the paper, Courtesy dear,” said the gardener, “except when you get born or married or dead.” “It’d be like a sultana in a seed-cake,” said the suffragette, “or like a sunrise at tea-time. Or as if a Forty-nine ’bus went to the Bank.” I really think she was a little delirious, and perhaps she felt it herself, for she added apologetically, “I always think Forty-nine is such an innocent ’bus, it never knows the City.” Next morning it was raining in the persistently militant sort of way reserved by the weather for public holidays. “A pity,” said the gardener at breakfast. “I meant to take you over to the village to introduce you to Mr. Rust. And there are no ’buses or taxis here.” “Let’s dispense with the ’buses and taxis,” suggested the suffragette. “Let’s forget London and get country-wet.” “You’ll catch your death of cold,” said the gardener delightedly, and presently they started. “I don’t really want to be introduced to your friend,” said the suffragette. “Only I wanted a chance to speak to you alone. Do you know, beneath a militant exterior I am horribly shy?” “It’s obvious,” retorted the gardener. “Is it?” asked the suffragette, annoyed, and relapsed into silence for a moment. “I wanted to tell you ...” she began again presently, “that I beg your pardon for coming here. It’s unforgivable of me. You know, as regards men, I’m not a woman at all; I haven’t the unselfish instincts that other women have. I came because I had—reached the limit—and I wanted a friend....” “Well, you didn’t come far wrong,” said the gardener. “I love you.” “I didn’t think of your feelings at all, which is only another proof that it is no good your loving me.” “May I take the risk?” The suffragette stopped, and stood leaning against the rain-whipped wind. Rain was trapped in the mesh of her soft hair. She clenched her fists upon her breast.