One Sunday she walked to Hyde Park and saw some of the suffragist speakers pelted with turf by a rowdily hostile crowd. The occasion proved to be critical, so far as some of her tendencies were concerned. Militancy had not appealed to her. There was too much of the “drunk and disorderly” about it, too much spiteful screaming. It suggested a reversion to savage, back-street methods, and Eve’s pride had refused to indulge in futile and wholly undignified exhibitions of violence. There were better ways of protesting than by kicking policemen’s shins, breaking windows, and sneaking about at midnight setting fire to houses. Yet when she saw these women pelted, hooted at, and threatened, the spirit of partisanship fired up at the challenge. She was on the outskirts of the crowd, and perhaps her pale and intent face attracted attention. At all events, she found a lout, who looked like a young shop-assistant, standing close beside her, and staring in her face. “Votes for women!” His ironical shout was an accusation, and his eyes were the eyes of a bully. And of a sudden Eve understood what it meant for a woman to have to stand up and face the coarse male element in the crowd, all the young cads who were out for horseplay. She was conscious of physical fear; a shrinking from the bestial thoughtlessness of a mob that did things that any single man would have been ashamed to do. The fellow was still staring at her. “Now, then, ‘Votes for Women!’ Own up!” He jogged her with his elbow, and she kept a scornful profile towards him, though trembling inwardly. Someone interposed. “You there, leave the young lady alone! She’s only listening like you and me.” The aggressor turned with a snarl, but found himself up against a particularly big workman dressed in his Sunday clothes. “You’re an old woman yourself.” “Go home and sell stockings over the counter, and leave decent people alone.” Eve thanked the man with a look, and turned out of the crowd. The workman followed her. “’Scuse me, miss, I’ll walk to the gates with you. There are too many of these young blackguard fools about.” “Thank you very much.” “I’ve got a lot of sympathy with the women, but seems to me some of ’em are on the wrong road.” She looked at him interestedly. He was big and fresh coloured and quiet, and reminded her in his coarser way of James Canterton. “You think so?” “It don’t do to lose your temper, even in a game, and that’s what some of the women are doing. We’re reasonable sort of creatures, and it’s no use going back to the old boot and claw business.” “What they say is that they have tried reasoning, and that men would not listen.” He laughed.