Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. They travelled past the few idle sightseers who had braved the uninviting evening to see what the Suffragettes might be doing; they pulled up unchallenged within thirty yards of those coveted portals. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. I don’t play anything. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. Very good. “You poor little girl!” he cried.
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