Three happy girls, eyes laughter-lit, breezy, buoyant, joyous, arm in arm, talking like three cascades, are making a royal progress down "the lane that leads to Rye." Such is the head of the comet. Just a glance at the tail. A heterogeneous nebula of human life--all ranks and ages, both sexes and all professions, following, jostling, bustling, hustling. Miss Christabel Pankhurst shakes herself free from one of her supporters, and takes under her wing a barefoot, ragged urchin, whose eyes are dancing with glee and pride, for his pals are envious. Who is he that that gloved hand should rest caressingly upon his shoulder? The girl and the gamin trudge along together. "Oh, ain't she just sweet?" says a factory girl, "and fancy 'er abeen to prison!" "Carn't she tork--my word?" chimes in her mate. "Why, she just shut up them blokes as arsked the questions just like a man, she did!" Her magnetism lies in her complexity, her bafflingness, her buoyance, her radiant health, her colouring--that of the inside of a seashell. She is so every inch alive--the very exuberance of life, body and mind. Not the racked intensity that comes of nerves high strung and over-active brain, but just that finger-tip aliveness which comes of perfect health and perfect happiness in engrossing occupation. This girl orator and organiser, martyr and crusader, holds and sways her crowds by a very network of antithesis, and her rosy face is the index of her complexity. Defiance chases demureness; she flings a madcap word and then lectures you like a schoolmistress. One moment reticent, grave, and serious, then simmering with mischief, as she lays a Cabinet Minister or a man in the crowd safely upon his back--O rash questioner! Then her wilfulness--that puckered chin tells a tale--yet her willingness to listen and to learn. Her melting, comprehending sympathy for the sorrowful and heavy-laden--her rapier wit and repartee, but ever smothered in the white sugar of good humour. All these you see--some, when sitting in the background of the trolly, she seeks to hide from the public stare, which she shrinks from with a maiden's modesty when not actually engaged in speaking--others, when with lissome figure swaying, in rhythmic sympathy with the outpouring words, she fastens her mind and yours upon the point at issue. And then her unconscious petulance. That green veil of hers tied under her chin that would for ever get awry. Yes, she is very, very feminine, and that is what will win the vote for women. With a voice that never tires (nor ever tires the listener), she is born to charm the ear with an ebb and flow of sweet sound--sound so clear, so silver, so bell-like, now rising, now falling, now rushing and tumultuous, now measured and tempered and austere--earnest and grave--impetuous, a very volley, ardent, burning, scathing, denunciatory--then sinking to appeal to low notes and something near to sadness.