Miss Claxton smiled. 'I'll take them in myself in future,' said the lady on the sofa. 'Was it reading those papers that set you to thinking?' 'Reading papers? Oh, no. It was----' She hesitated, and puckered up her brows again as she stared round the room. 'Yes, go on. That's one of the things I wanted to know, if you don't mind--how you came to be identified with the movement.' A little wearily, without the smallest spark of enthusiasm at the prospect of imparting her biography, Miss Claxton told slowly, even dully, and wholly without passion, the story of a hard life met single-handed from even the tender childhood days--one of those recitals that change the relation between the one who tells and the one who listens--makes the last a sharer in the life to the extent that the two can never be strangers any more. Though they may not meet, nor write, nor have any tangible communication, there is understanding between them. At the close Miss Levering stood up and gave the other her hand. Neither said anything. They looked at each other. After the lady had resumed her seat, Miss Claxton, as under some compulsion born of the other's act of sympathy, went on-- 'It is a newspaper lie--as you haven't needed to be told--about the spitting and scratching and biting--but the day I was arrested; the day of the deputation to Effingham, I saw a policeman knocking some of our poorer women about very roughly' (it had its significance, the tone in which she said 'our poorer women'). 'I called out that he was not to do that again. He had one of our women like this, and he was banging her against the railings. I called out if he didn't stop I would make him. He kept on'--a cold glitter came into the eyes--'and I struck him. I struck the coward in the face.' The air of the mild luxurious room grew hot and quivered. The lady on the sofa lowered her eyes. 'They must be taught,' the other said sternly, 'the police must be taught, they are not to treat our women like that. On the whole the police behave well. But their power is immense and almost entirely unchecked. It's a marvel they are as decent as they are. How should _they_ be expected to know how to treat women? What example do they have? Don't they hear constantly in the courts how little it costs a man to be convicted of beating his own wife?' She fired the questions at the innocent person on the sofa, as if she held her directly responsible for the need to ask them. 'Stealing is far more dangerous; yes, even if a man's starving. That's because bread is often dear and women are always cheap.' She waited a moment, waited for the other to contradict or at least resent the dictum. The motionless figure among the sofa cushions, whose very look and air seemed to proclaim 'some of us are expensive enough,' hardly opened her lips to say, as if to herself-- 'Yes, women are cheap.'