“So she was. I’m telling you. It’s the wrongs, not of one woman, but of all women, of all ages of women, that burn behind it.” “Votes for Women!” It was Mr. Flood’s voice. There was a laugh and I lost an answer. I caught only a vehement blur of words, because Great-aunt had me by the wrist. “Chatter, chatter! I can’t hear ’em. What’s my daughter talking about?” I hesitated. “About books, Auntie.” “Whose books?” she pounced. “Some writer, Auntie.” “What’s she saying about her, eh?” She held me bent down to her. I glanced at Kent Rehan. He was listening to us. I felt harried. “About—oh—whether a genius—whether she was a genius——” “Madala, eh?” “Yes, Auntie.” I thought I heard him sigh. And at that—why, I don’t know—I turned on him. I was rude, I believe. I sounded silly and cruel, I know. Yet, heaven knows, that that was the last thing I wanted to be. I said angrily to him— “Oh, why do you stand there and listen? Don’t you see that I can’t help myself? Why don’t you go away? What good can it do you to stay here, to stay and listen to it all?” Then I stopped because he looked at me for a moment, and flushed, and then did turn away, back again to his old dreary post at the street window. Great-aunt chuckled. “That’s right, little Jenny. Take your own way with them, Jenny!” I said— “Let me go, Auntie dear,” and I loosed her hand from my wrist and went after him; for of course the instant the words were out of my mouth I was ashamed of myself. I couldn’t think what had possessed me. I was badly ashamed of myself. I came to him and said— “Mr. Rehan—I don’t mean to be rude. Great-aunt—she doesn’t understand. She made me talk. It wasn’t rudeness; but you stood there, and I knew—I thought I knew, what you must think, must be thinking—” (but ‘feeling’ was the word I meant) “and I was sorry. I was angry because I was sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” He said— “It’s all right. I didn’t think you rude.” Then I said— “But I meant it. Why do you stay? What good can it do you? Why don’t you go away from it all?” And he— “Where is there to go? I’ve been tramping all day.” “Where?” “I don’t know. Up and down streets. It’s—it’s blinding, it’s stifling——” “The fog is,” I said quickly. But we didn’t mean the fog. He let himself down into the low wicker chair. I stood leaning against the sill, watching him. “You’re just dead tired,” I said. He nodded. Then, as if something in my words had stung him— “Where else? I’ve always come here. Every month. It was natural to come.” “But now” I said (and I was so urgent with him because of all their talk that drummed still in my mind like a wasps’ nest)—“I’d go away if I were you. What good does it do you? They talk. It’s—it’s rather hateful. I’ve been listening. I’d go.” “Where?” he said again. And I— “Haven’t you anyone—at home?”