The Canon was no feminist. It was one of his cherished convictions that women should be kept in their place, which, with regard to the lords of creation, was chiefly the background. He felt that the attitude which best became them was one of submission. Like the natural savage, unspoiled by the vice of civilization, he considered that man should hunt, fight, and be handsome, while the weaker sex toiled for the privilege of contemplating his greatness. He had never imparted these theories to Lady Sophia. “When you want something from a woman insist upon having it,” he added. “Hammer away and in the long run you’ll get it.” “But Winnie is so different from other girls,” replied Wroxham, unconvinced. “Nonsense! Every man thinks the girl he wants to marry different from every other. But she’s nothing of the kind. Women are very much of a muchness, especially the pretty ones. I have no patience with this ranting about the equality of the sexes. It is not only irreligious but vulgar. I lay my faith on the Bible, which tells us that women shall be subject unto man. I’ve never met the woman that I couldn’t turn round my little finger.” He looked at that particular digit. It was adorned with a handsome ring, on which in all their monstrous fraudulence were the arms of his family. His voice rang with manly scorn. “No, my dear Harry, you have my full approval. And you have my assurance that Winnie undoubtedly cares for you. What more can you want? Hammer away, my dear sir, hammer away. The proper fashion to deal with a woman is to ask her in season and out of season. Propose to her morning, noon, and night. Worry her as a terrier worries a bone. Insist on marrying her. Sooner or later she’ll say yes, and think herself a prodigious fool for not having done so before.” “You’re very encouraging,” said the lover, smiling. Canon Spratte’s cheery vigour was irresistible, and the force of his rhetoric seemed to overcome even material obstacles. But when Wroxham considered the affair he was puzzled. He was a youth of only common intelligence. This the Canon had observed with satisfaction, for he knew that nothing is so prejudicial in the world of politics as to excel the average. It did not appear natural that Winnie should refuse him out of mere virginal coyness, as the hen-bird flies from the nightingale till he has sung his most amorous lays. Her melancholy pointed to something more complex. “You’re very encouraging,” he repeated, but this time with a sigh. “There are few men who have more experience in the management of the sex than I,” returned Canon Spratte, with the air of a Sultan who has conducted with unexampled success a seraglio of more than common dimensions. “Now what do you propose to do?” “I don’t know,” answered Wroxham, somewhat helplessly.