The thing they wanted they called the Vote, but that demand so hollow, so eyeless, had all the terrifying effect of a mask. Behind that mask was a formless invincible discontent with the lot of womanhood. It wanted,—it was not clear what it wanted, but whatever it wanted, all the domestic instincts of mankind were against admitting there was anything it could want. That remarkable agitation had already worked up to the thunderous pitch, there had been demonstrations at Public Meetings, scenes in the Ladies’ Gallery and something like rioting in Parliament Square before ever it occurred to Sir Isaac that this was a disturbance that touched his home. He had supposed suffragettes were ladies of all too certain an age with red noses and spectacles and a masculine style of costume, who wished to be hugged by policemen. He said as much rather knowingly and wickedly to Charterson. He could not understand any woman not coveting the privileges of Lady Harman. And then one day while Georgina and her mother were visiting them, as he was looking over the letters at the breakfast table according to his custom before giving them out, he discovered two identical newspaper packets addressed to his wife and his sister-in-law, and upon them were these words printed very plainly, “Votes for Women.” “Good Lord!” he cried. “What’s this? It oughtn’t to be allowed.” And he pitched the papers at the wastepaper basket under the sideboard. “I’ll thank you,” said Georgina, “not to throw away our _Votes for Women_. We subscribe to that.” “Eh?” cried Sir Isaac. “We’re subscribers. Snagsby, just give us those papers.” (A difficult moment for Snagsby.) He picked up the papers and looked at Sir Isaac. “Put ’em down there,” said Sir Isaac, waving to the sideboard and then in an ensuing silence handed two letters of no importance to his mother-in-law. His face was pale and he was breathless. Snagsby with an obvious tactfulness retired. Sir Isaac watched the door close. His remark pointedly ignored Georgina. “What you been thinking about, Elly,” he asked, “subscribing to _that_ thing?” “I wanted to read it.” “But you don’t hold with all that Rubbish——” “_Rubbish!_” said Georgina, helping herself to marmalade. “Well, rot then, if you like,” said Sir Isaac, unamiably and panting.