Yes, Beatrice had been a little inconsiderate. When they met again he would subtly convey that she had not been quite so perfect in her handling of the case as she might have been. Not blame--oh, no! that would be too severe. But a touch of respectful and adoring frigidity--a hint of polite and ardent disappointment, that was the note to be struck. It would add to the subsequent reconciliation, or rather readjustment. Iced champagne, in short, followed by liquor brandy. Finally (perhaps ... who knows?) a mixture of the two, compounding that exhilarating beverage, king's peg. But that could only be drunk post-mortem.... Poor, dear old Lukos.... Well, for the present he must sport the blue ribbon.... But a dog will have its pat: if the mistress will not give it, another may; and who can blame the devoted creature if it lingers piteously hard by a stranger? Again, why blame the stranger, moved doubtless by a kindly and an unselfish impulse? Why blame Miss Arkwright, in short, for growing daily more cordial, more appreciative, more anxious to oblige with the pat? Lionel was obeying the orders of Beatrice, to watch and do the bidding of his hostess; he could not be expected to damp her graciousness, check her enthusiasm: had he done so, he might have sealed the source of some important information. He must endure the pat, suffer it, permit, accept, not refuse; but ... welcome? He was talking to her in the garden one afternoon. They had begun the conversation on some trivial theme, soon tossed aside for a subject of substance. It was not long before they were on the time-worn topic, the war of the sexes. Miss Arkwright, it appeared, was a suffragette--not militant, certainly, but convinced and ardent. She expressed surprise that Lionel did not take similar views. "For you," she said sweetly, "are a reasonable fair-minded man. And I should think," she added mischievously, "that you have many friends who might convert you." "It isn't my brain that wants conversion," he replied meditatively. "Most of the arguments are on the women's side. Logic tells me they should have the vote; feeling--and by feeling I don't mean prejudice or bigotry, but something deeper--recoils from the idea of women in parliament. And it would mean that in the long-run. Let us keep them out of the dirty work." "They might cleanse the stables." "I'd rather not. We're cleansing them gradually, one hopes: at any rate, it's not a woman's job." "Our view is that _all_ jobs should be women's." "Impossible." He shook his head. "I'm one of the old-fashioned believers in the home as woman's sphere----" "And the thousands of unmarried workers? You forget them." "Hard, I grant you, but they're a minority. Most women have the home sphere. Mind, I don't believe in inequality as regards laws: they should be the same for both." "Yes," she said with a bitterness that surprised him, "look at the inequalities of divorce, for instance."