Mrs. Rossiter thought the whole thing profoundly improper. In the first place the young woman had committed suicide, which of itself was a crime and disentitled you to Christian burial; in the second she had died in a way greatly to inconvenience persons in the highest society; in the third she had always understood that racing was a perfectly proper pastime for gentlemen; and in the fourth this incident, touching Michael through his relationship with the deceased, would bring him again in contact with that Vivie Warren--_there_ she was and there was _he_, in close converse--and make a knighthood from a nearly relenting Government well-nigh impossible. Rossiter, after the service, had begged Vivie to come back to tea with them in Park Crescent and give Mrs. Rossiter and himself a full account of what took place at Epsom. Vivie had declined. She had not even spoken to the angry little woman, who had refused to attend the service and had sat fuming all through the half hour in her electric brougham, wishing she had the courage and determination to order the chauffeur to turn round and run her home, leaving the Professor to follow in a taxi. But perhaps if she did that, he would go off somewhere with that Warren woman. Michael presently re-entered the carriage and in silence they returned to Portland Place. The next day his wife meeting one of her Anti-Suffrage friends said: "Er--supposing--er--you had got to know something about these dreadful militant women, something which might help the police, yet didn't want to get _too_ much mixed up with it yourself, and _certainly_ not bring your husband into it--the Professor _thoroughly_ disapproves of militancy, even though he may have foolish ideas about the Vote--er--what would you do?" "Well, what is it?" "It's part of a letter."