"I’ve thought.... A regular swarm of Distinguished French and Belgian Big Pots and Little Pots—Mayors—Prefects and Deputies, Judges, Press Representatives and Inspectors-General—are engaged in Discovering England this week as ever is. It’s an echo of the Entente Cordiale. Behind the badge of the International Advancement Association—I’ve got one!—I might drop in at one of their farewell speechifications, I believe the next’s on Friday at Leamington—and heckle ’em like one o’clock! Ask ’em why women don’t have the Vote in France and Belgium——" "Don’t they?" "Nix a bit! Not for all the fuss they make about the sex. Or—to fix the scene of my maiden effort nearer home—there’s a Banquet of Archbishops, Bishops and their wives at the Mansion House to-morrow night. Music just after the flesh-pots and before the speeches or after—a select company of Concert Artistes, the gemmen in boiled shirts and the usual accompaniments; the ladies in white with black sashes and black gloves. And that’s where I shall come in—in white with black trimmings. Land of Hope and Glory!—when I get up and ask the Archbishop of Canterbury to plump for Female Suffrage!—or shall it be the Lord Mayor? ... Won’t my Uncle Gustavus burst the buttons off his episcopal waistcoat. You’ve seen him. He’s Bishop of Dorminster—and they fasten ’em at the back." "Let the Bishop keep his buttons on!" said Patrine, suddenly and savagely. "What the—devil does it matter whether women get the Vote? Would we keep it if we got it, or throw it away—oh! idiots—idiots!—to gratify some vulgar vanity, or some beastly sensual whim?" "Gee-whillikins!" Rhona whistled shrilly in astonishment. "Why, I thought you were one of Us. Not actively militant, but a sympathiser, no end. Didn’t you get our Committee in touch with Mrs. Saxham, when we’d set our hearts on having her speak at the Monster Meeting of Women we’re going to have in October at the Grand Imperial Hall? She’s promised to address us on Suffrage and we’re all over ourselves to hear her. That last article of hers in _The National Quarterly_—’The Burden of Tyre,’ has collared the literary cake. People tell me who’ve read it that she doesn’t care a hang about the Vote for Women in any other sense than that it’d open a gateway to legislation on the Sex Question of a much more drastic kind. She’d bring in a Bill to have moral offences against children dealt with by a Jury of Mothers—a lot they’d leave of the offender once they’d their claws on him!—and make it a Life Sentence every time, for the fellow who seduces a girl." Patrine listened in stony silence. Rhona chattered on. "Of course the work she does amongst those unlucky wretches—young girls and women who’ve come to grief—is topping. But why waste herself rescuing prostitutes and street-walkers? Aren’t any of us good enough—or bad enough to interest her? I’m going to ask her that when you introduce me—remember you’ve promised to!"