"I fancy the best thing under the circumstances is to wire to Gresham
Place, and have them send a car over--providing the telephone is in
order."
"The wire is cut," I broke in. And then, like the poor thing I am, I
began to cry. I hate lightning. It always makes me nervous.
Both Sir George and Mr. Harcourt stared at me helplessly. And then,
still sniffling, I told them the whole story, and how Daphne and the
rest would soon be there, and that I wasn't really a Suffragette; that I
was an American, and I thought women ought to vote, but be ladylike and
proper about it, and that, at least, they ought to be school directors,
because they understood little children so well and paid taxes, anyhow.
When I got through and looked up at them Sir George was staring at me in
bewilderment and Mr. Harcourt was smiling broadly.
"My dear young lady," he said, "of course you ought to vote. And if
voting went by general attractiveness you would have to be what
Americans call a repeater--vote twice, you know."
(It was at this point, when I told the story, that Ernestine Sutcliffe
looked contemptuous. "We are not _all_ pretty puppets," she said. And I
retorted: "No, I should say not!")
All this had taken longer than it sounds, for on the very tail of Mr.
Harcourt's speech came a double honk from the drive. Mr. Harcourt jumped
for the hall lamp and extinguished it in an instant. I hardly know what
happened next. My eyes were still staring wide into the blackness when
he reached over and clutched me by the shoulder.
"Not a word, please," he ordered. "This way, Sir George! The door is
bolted, and we will have time to get upstairs and hide. There's a secret
room, if I can remember how to get to it. Walk lightly."
I could hear Daphne at the door outside and I opened my mouth to scream.
But Mr. Harcourt divined my intention and clapped a hand over it.
As I was half led, half dragged back through the dark hall I saw Violet
enter by one of the windows.