the undue intrusion of personal emotions, and to broaden the range of the woman’s political views beyond her own immediate environment. The power which they hold in their hands is enormous: they have not yet learned to use it fully, but they cannot divest themselves of it. The political future of England depends largely on the manner in which they handle it. There is now a lady members’ room in the Palace of Westminster, which at present has only one occupant. When it has many—and the time may not be long distant—will it not be a dynamo for the storage of the feminine current? Its very existence cuts for the first time across the purely political differences of members within the precincts of the House, typifying a distinction never before drawn between one member and another—that of sex. Its effects may not be immediate and resounding, but there are dormant possibilities there which it would be absurd to overlook, possibilities of a new energy let loose, of drama, even of romance. The collective consciousness of the House or of a committee is extremely susceptible to emotional appeal: it is easily exasperated, readily smoothed by tact, quickly moved to laughter. It would hardly be impervious to an appeal, even tacit, to its chivalry. If a man with a fine appearance and a good voice immediately prepossesses such an audience in his favour, may we not imagine the case of a beautiful woman with a melodious voice rising, let us say, from the Treasury or the front Opposition bench to plead a cause with passion? A crowded House is an effective background for a speaker from such a position: a woman, with her sex’s unerring eye for effective pose, would make full use of it. Would she not project from her whole personality a force infinitely exceeding that of her mere words and arguments, a force of which no man would be capable, given a similar audience? There might be a radiance, a pathos—suppose she ventured a telling sob—an enthusiasm which, though absent from the pages of the morrow’s Hansard, might tell strongly enough upon the night’s division. At ordinary times, it is true, party prepossessions and party whips, as well as logical convictions, are sufficient safeguards against the effect of irrelevant appeal: but, when the point is critical, opinions evenly divided, feeling high, or a government shaking, the smallest thing may turn the scale. The appeal of a woman to men, used consciously or unconsciously, at such a time would not be a small thing. It might be so momentary as to vanish from the ken of history, but it might be decisive. The requisite combination of circumstances may be long in making its appearance, but no one can deny its possibility. The oratorical power of a Fox, a Pitt and a Burke are remembered even now, when their personalities have vanished and the effect of their very words is no longer overpowering. If their emotional mastery over a gathering of men was so great as to outlive their bodies for over a century, surely the