She could very well look over Lucy's head, for she stood six feet in her shoes--they had rather high heels. A tall, fair girl, not plump or round by any means, nor rosy-cheeked--she was not a milkmaid; she was an advanced thinker--but lithe, and elastic, and dignified--very dignified. Lucy thought she had never seen anyone so dignified in her life as Pamela on the night of the first debate of the term at Newnham. She opened the debate on this particular evening--it happened to be some question of woman's rights which she was always advocating--and she spoke for half an hour without a single pause or hitch. Some people confess that they cannot bear to hear a woman speak; that when a woman stands up to speak in public it always gives them the sensation of cold water running down their backs. No one who listened to Pamela Gwatkin would have this uncomfortable sensation for a moment. It seemed as if she had been made to stand up in public; as if Nature had intended her for a female orator, and had given her the voice--the clear, penetrating, resonant voice--the quiet, assured manner, the full, free flow of words, without which no woman may attempt to stand on a public platform. Pamela Gwatkin had all these rare gifts, and she had opinions--very advanced opinions--on every subject under the sun--religion, morals, science, philosophy--nothing came amiss to her. When women are admitted into Parliament she will probably represent an important constituency, perhaps the University. Lucy, looking down from the gallery above, listened breathlessly, and when the debate was over watched her sailing down the hall in her pale violet gown, with the soft folds of her train gliding noiselessly after her. They didn't rustle and sweep like the frills and furbelows of the other girl, who came _frou-frouing_ down the room, pencil in hand, counting the votes. She might have spared her pains; of course, every girl in her senses voted with Pamela. There was a dance as usual after the debate, and the unique spectacle of fifty female couples spinning round untainted by the arm of man. Pamela Gwatkin danced as well as she spoke, but she didn't put any enthusiasm into it. She took it as the least troublesome way of taking exercise, but she didn't put any spirit into it. She didn't smile once all the evening, except in a weary, disdainful way when her partner broke down or fell out of the ring. She never broke down or fell out herself, and when she had tired out one girl she took up another. Lucy remarked that she always chose small girls--the smallest girls she could find--and that they were invariably 'gentlemen.' Lucy was wondering how ever they could drag her round, when, to her consternation, Pamela stopped in front of her.