e, Martin glanced from her to her surroundings and then back again to her. “My dear Corinna,” said he, putting hat, stick and gloves on a bamboo ta

ose quar


ble, “what on earth are you doing with yourself?” She looked at him defiantly, with a touch of haggardness. “I am devoting

ters. So whe

myself to the Cause.” Martin wrinkled a puzzled brow. “What cause?” “For a woman there is only one,” said Corinna. “Oh!

n Martin a

” said Martin. “May I sit down?” “Please do.” She poked a tiny fire in a diminutive tiled grate, while he selected the mo

rrived, the
third, Cor



st solid of the bamboo chairs. She sat on a stool on the hearthrug. “I suppose you’re anti-suffrage like any other bigoted reactionary,” she said. Martin replied truly: “I haven’t worried about it one way or


the other.” She t

urned on

him swift


ly. “Then you’re worse

than a



opponent. It’s just the contemptuous apathy of men like you that drive us mad.” She entered upon a long and nervous tirade, trotting out the old argu



ments, using the stock phrases, parroting a hundred platform speeches. And all the time, though appearing to attack, she was on the defensive, defiant,

a perfun


desperate. Martin regarded her with a shocked expression. Her thin blonde beauty was being pinched into shrewishness. “But, my dear Corinna,” said he. “I’ve come to see you, as an old friend. I just want to know how

you’re getting on. What’s the good of a political argument between us two? You may be wrong or you may be right. I haven’t studied the question. Let us drop it from a contentious point of view. Let us meet humanly. Or if y

ou like, let us tell each other the outside things that have happened to us. You haven’t even asked me why I’m here. You haven’t asked after Félise, or Fortinbras, or Bigourdin.” He waxed warm. “I’ve just come from Br

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