nt of view of the Press, it was enough to
make the soberest sides shake with Homeric laughter.

So, then, one last time to see for one's self. And on this occasion no
pettiness of disguise, Miss Levering's aspect seemed to say--no
recurrence of any undignified flight. She had been frightened away from
her first meeting, but she would not be frightened from the second,
which was also to be the last.

An instinct unanalyzed, but significant of what was to follow, kept her
from seeking companionship outside. Had Wark not gone over to the
market-gardener, her former mistress would have had no misgiving about
taking the woman into her confidence. But Wark, with lightning rapidity,
had become Mrs. Anderson Slynes, and was beyond recall. So the new maid
was told the following Sunday, that she might walk with her mistress
across Hyde Park (where the papers said the meetings in future were to
be), carrying some music which had to be returned to the Tunbridges.

Pursuing this programme, what more natural than that those two chance
pedestrians should be arrested by an apparition on their way, of a
flaming banner bearing, along with a demand for the vote, an outrageous
charge against a distinguished public servant--'a pity the misguided
creatures didn't know him, just a little!'

Yes. There it was! a rectangle of red screaming across the vivid green
of the park not a hundred yards from the Marble Arch, the denunciatory
banner stretched above the side of an uncovered van. A little crowd of
perhaps a hundred collected on one side of the cart--the loafers on the
outermost fringe, lying on the grass. Never a sign of a Suffragette, and
nearly three o'clock! Impossible for any passer-by to carry out the
programme of pausing to ask idly, 'What are those women screeching
about?'

Seeming to search in vain for some excuse to linger, Miss Levering's
wandering eye fell upon a young mother wheeling a perambulator. She had
glanced with mild curiosity at the flaunting ensign, and then turned
from it to lean forward and straighten her baby's cap.

'I wonder what _she_ thinks of the Woman Question,' Miss Levering
observed, in a careless aside to her maid.

Before Gorringe could reply: 'Doddy's a bootiful angel, isn't Doddy?'
said the young mother, with subdued rapture.

'Ah, she's found the solution,' said the lady, looking back.

Other pedestrians glanced at the little crowd about the cart, read
demand and denunciation on the banner, la