"D'you think so?" said Edward Henry. He had no idea who she might be. He had probably shaken hands with her at his stone-laying, but if so he had forgotten her face. He was fast becoming one of the oligarchical few who are recognized by far more people than they recognize. "A beautiful play!" said the woman. "Not merely poetic but intellectual! And an extraordinarily acute criticism of modern conditions!" He nodded. "What do you think of the scenery?" he asked. "Well, of course candidly," said the woman, "I think it's silly. I daresay I'm old-fashioned." ... "I daresay," murmured Edward Henry. "They told me you were very ironic," said she, flushing but meek. "They!" Who? Who in the world of London had been labelling him as ironic? He was rather proud. "I hope if you _do_ do this kind of play--and we're all looking to you, Mr. Machin," said the lady, making a new start, "I hope you won't go in for these costumes and scenery. That would never do!" Again the stab of the needle! "It wouldn't," he said. "I'm delighted you think so," said she. An orange telegram came travelling from hand to hand along that row of stalls, and ultimately, after skipping a few persons, reached the magnificently-arrayed woman, who read it, and then passed it to Edward Henry. "Splendid!" she exclaimed. "Splendid!" Edward Henry read: "Released. Isabel." "What does it mean?" "It's from Isabel Joy--at Marseilles." "Really!" Edward Henry's ignorance of affairs round about the centre of the universe was occasionally distressing--to himself in particular. And just now he gravely blamed Mr. Marrier, who had neglected to post him about Isabel Joy. But how could Marrier honestly earn his three pounds a week if he was occupied night and day with the organizing and management of these precious dramatic soirées? Edward Henry decided that he must give Mr. Marrier a piece of his mind at the first opportunity. "Don't you know?" questioned the dame. "How should I?" he parried. "I'm only a provincial." "But surely," pursued the dame, "you knew we'd sent her round the world. She started on the _Kandahar_, the ship that you stopped Sir John Pilgrim from taking. She almost atoned for his absence at Tilbury. Twenty-five reporters, anyway!" Edward Henry sharply slapped his thigh, which in the Five Towns signifies: "I shall forget my own name next." Of course! Isabel Joy was the advertising emissary of the Militant Suffragette Society, sent forth to hold a public meeting and make a speech in the principal ports of the world. She had guaranteed to circuit the globe and to be back in London within a hundred days, to speak in at least five languages, and to get herself arrested at least three times _en route_.... Of course! Isabel Joy had possessed a very fair share of the newspapers on the day before the stone-laying, but Edward Henry had naturally had too many preoccupations to follow her exploits. After all, his momentary forgetfulness was rather excusable.