William—An Englishman. Cicely Hamilton

little cat!" was the ungentlemanly rejoinder. "If you come here again I'll pare your nasty little nails for you."

      And, dabbing a scored left hand with his handkerchief, the steward returned to his duties—leaving Griselda in the centre of a jocular crowd attracted to the spot by several previous ejections. She was minus her rosebuds, her toque and quite half of her hairpins; on the other hand, she held tightly grasped in her fingers a crumpled silk necktie which had once been the property of a stout and orthodox Liberal. She was conscious that she had acted with perfect dignity as well as with unusual courage—and that consciousness, combined with her experience of similar situations, enabled her to sustain with calm contempt the attentions of the jocular crowd.

      "You'd like a taxi, I suppose, miss?" the constable on duty suggested—having also considerable experience of similar situations. Griselda assented and the taxi was duly hailed. Before it arrived at the kerb she was joined on the pavement by her lover, who had left the meeting by the same door as his betrothed and in much the same manner and condition; he had parted with a shoe as well as a hat, and one of his braces was broken. A hearty shove assisted him down the steps to the pavement where, to the applause of the unthinking multitude, he fell on his knees in an attitude of adoration before Griselda's friend the constable. Recovering his equilibrium, he would have turned again to the assault; but his game attempt to re-enter the building was frustrated not only by a solidly extended arm of the law but by the intervention of Griselda herself.

      "You have done enough for to-night, dear," she whispered, taking his arm. "My instructions are not to insist on arrest. We have made our protest—we can afford to withdraw."

      She led the retreat to the taxi with a dignity born of practice; William, now conscious of his snapped brace, following with less deportment. The vehicle once clear of the jeering crowd, Griselda put her arms round her lover and kissed his forehead solemnly.

      "My dear one," she said, "I am proud of you."

      "Oh, Griselda, I'm proud of you," he murmured between their kisses. "How brave you are—how wonderful!—how dared they! ... I went nearly mad when I saw them handling you—I hit out, and the cowards knocked me down.... A woman raising her voice on the side of justice—and they silence her with brutal violence——"

      "It's only what we must expect, dear," she whispered back, stroking his rumpled hair. "Remember this is War—God knows it's horrible, but we must not shrink from it."

      She spoke from her heart, from the profound ignorance of the unread and unimaginative ... and once more in the darkness of the taxi the warriors clasped and kissed.