“I shan’t be an unscrupulous rogue a moment longer than I can help,” thought the gardener. “I shall pose as being good next. We will be married on landing.” Courtesy at that moment returned and said, “Your wife would like you to come and have tea with her.” “Don’t leave us alone,” begged the gardener of Courtesy as they went below. “I don’t know how to behave to heroines.” He was obviously at a loss when he reached the suffragette’s cabin. He had never seen her with her hair down, and that upset him from the start. He shook her gently but repeatedly by the hand, and smiled his well-meaning young smile. He did not know what to say, and this was usually a branch of knowledge at which he was proficient. “Did you know that Captain Walters won the sweep yesterday on the Captain’s number?” he asked. “Don’t be a donkey,” said Courtesy. There was a genial lack of sting about Courtesy’s discourtesies, which kept her charm intact through all vicissitudes. “She doesn’t want to hear about the sweep. Let her be just now. She’s busy pouring out your tea.” For in the same spirit as the nurse allows a convalescent child to pour out tea from its own teapot, Courtesy had encouraged the suffragette to officiate. The headquarters of the meal, on a tray, were balanced upon the invalid’s bunk. It was not a treat to the suffragette, who loathed all the details of Woman’s Sphere, but for once she did not proclaim the ungracious truth. “I’m sorry,” she said nervously. “It’s years since I did anything of this sort. But I don’t know whether you take milk and sugar.” The gardener distrustfully eyed the hot water with vague aspirations towards tea-dom that dripped into his cup. “I don’t take either milk or sugar, thank you,” he said, “I like my troubles singly.” “Naughty boy,” said Courtesy, helping herself generously to cake. “You are beastly rude. And you’re a naughty gal, too, you suffragette. You ought to know how your husband likes his tea.” “But he’s not my husband,” said the suffragette. The gardener sat with a bun arrested half-way to his mouth. He had lived a self-contained existence, and had never before had a pose of his dismantled by an alien hand. The experience was most novel. He liked the suffragette more and more because she was unexpected. “Nonsense,” said Courtesy. “You’re feverish. You’ll tell me what you’ll be sorry for, in a minute.” “It’s true; and I’m far from sorry for it,” said the suffragette. “It’s almost too good to be true, but it is. I’m still alone. But because he thought I was a menace to England’s safety, he brought me away—by force.” “Perfectly true,” corroborated the gardener. “You babies,” said Courtesy. “It’s lucky for you it’s only me to hear you.” “It’s not a secret,” said the gardener. “I’ve just been talking about it to Mrs. Rust.” “And what did she say?” asked Courtesy and the suffragette together. “She said, ‘Good.’” At that moment the voice of Mrs. Rust was heard in the passage outside. “Miss Briggs.”