"You know this girl, don't you, Grove?" Brierly asked. "By George, she must be interesting. A new kind of female maniac, eh?" "You've met her," responded Evans. "She was at the Country Club during trophy match last fall. Carries herself like a queen. I remember your raving about her." "Ah," Brierly's derisive smile faded. "That girl, eh? Say, I saw her make the ninth hole in three. That girl! Say, look here, Grove," he struck the open paper with his palm, "does she mean this stuff?" Evans lighted a cigarette before replying. "She sure does," he stated finally. "I was at the Randalls when she delivered her ultimatum and took to the war path. Talk about a jolt! After she left us, you could hear the shades of night falling. For ten minutes we sat there exhibiting all the vivacity of a deaf and dumb man at a Quaker prayer-meeting." Brierly laughed. "Oh, well," he said. "She'll do what all these suffragettes do--run around in a circle, yell herself tired, then marry some fellow and forget it." He yawned. Evans turned to the huge safe and got out a heavy packet of papers. "What are you doing, Grove?" Brierly demanded lazily. "Nothing," responded Evans curtly. "Just looking over some of our shady leases." "Hello!" said Brierly, getting on his feet. "Are you taking this thing seriously?" Evans turned with a folded paper in his hand. "You bet your life I am," he replied. "I know this girl. There's a strain of wild Irish in her and it's my opinion that she's going to raise merry hell!" The dreamer who had visited the Millville Button Works with the owner of the mill lunched with his friend in the city that day. Quite casually, among other items of interest, Mary Randall's adventure came up for discussion. "I don't know the girl," said the mill-owner, "but her announcement gives me a fairly good mental picture of her." "What's your picture?" inquired the journalist. "A rag and a bone and a hank of hair, one of these raving suffragettes. Since bomb-throwing and burning are not fashionable over here, she's chosen this means of expending her surplus energy." "My dear friend, you're entirely wrong!" "What! You've seen her?" "Oh, no, but I have quite a different mental picture of her. You remember Joan of Arc? Mount her on a charger, hand her a sword of fire and send her forth to fight for Mary Magdalene. That's my idea." "You've borrowed that from the headline writers," the mill-owner said. "Not at all. I know the type. A thoughtful young girl, healthy, cultivated and, by the modern miracle, taught how to think. She studies vice conditions in Chicago at first hand and what she sees turns her into a crusader. This girl has spirit. Brought face to face with a great evil, moved by the appeal of helpless womanhood, she throws aside her veneer of false education." "Unsexed!" "Yes, if you would say that the crisis in her life unsexed Portia. Or the crisis in France's history unsexed Charlotte Corday."