Mr. Woods, driving one of his own wagonettes, was talking to the two passengers secured at the railway station four miles off and giving them a short autobiography—“Begun to work, I did, afore I were twelve, I did!”—when he caught sight of the gathering and broke off to express amazement; he gave at once an emphatic but scarcely original declaration that if women secured the vote they would not know what to do with it. The passengers differed from this view, and Mr. Woods, anxious to secure their patronage for the return journey, hastened to admit that he had not had the time to study the question thoroughly. A lady detached herself from the group and, holding her tweed cap on her head, ran across. “Whatever’s amiss, Jane?” “It’s a missis,” she added, robbed of breath by indignation and hurry. “That Mrs. Jarrett, as she calls herself. She’s been and opened some Tea Gardens.” “News to me,” he remarked alarmedly. “News to all of us. She ain’t been here more than three months, and this morning there’s playcards all over her place.” “Thought she seemed a nicely spoken person.” “You wait,” said Jane threateningly, “until we begin to talk to her. She’ll get what I call some home truths if she don’t look out.” The passengers suggested mildly that their time was limited, and Woods, rendered silent by the extraordinary nature of the information, drove on to the edge of the forest, contenting himself by indicating on the way the cottage where his sister-in-law Jane resided. In the clouded diamond panes it exhibited shyly, as did most of the other cottages, a small card that whispered the word “Teas”; a few bottles of ginger-beer rested on the sill to suggest that the establishment had further resources. After the passengers alighted he drove around by the road that skirted the wood, checking the horse slightly on approaching the house and lawn occupied by the new-comer. Tables had been placed, with striped cloths held by shining clips; a small marquee was being fixed in the corner. The neatly-painted board at the gate gave the title, “Forest Tea Gardens,” adding sentences to the effect that refreshments of the best quality could be obtained at any hour—“Large Parties and Small Parties catered for; proprietress, Clara Jarrett.” As Mr. Woods, unwilling to display curiosity, allowed his horse to go on, an automatic pianoforte started, with great vivacity, a waltz. “Great thing is,” announced Mr. Woods, speaking from his conveyance to the meeting as though he were a candidate for Parliament—“is not to lose your heads. Keep perfectly calm and cool, and everything’ll come right in the long run.” “Question is, how long a run is it going to be?” demanded one. “Provided,” he went on, “provided that we all stick together, she can’t last half-way through the summer.” “And meanwhile—” “Meanwhile,” interrupted Woods irritably, “you’ve got to make the best of it. Competition’s bound to exist in this world.”