Mrs. Ames by E. F. Benson

me!’
    The concluding sentence was not intended to put a stop on this pleasant conversation; it was only the natural ejaculation of one connected with landed proprietors. Mrs Evans understood it in that sense.
    â€˜Do tell me all about it,’ she said. ‘Of course, I am only a woman, and we are supposed to have no brains, are we not? And to be able to understand nothing about politics. But will they really take my cousin James’s place away from him? I think Radicals must be wicked.’
    â€˜More fools than knaves, I always say,’ said Major Ames magnanimously. ‘They are deluded, like the poor Suffragettes. Suffragettes now! A woman’s sphere of influence lies in her home. Women are the queens of the earth; I’ve often said that, and what do queens want with votes? Would Amy have any more influence in Riseborough if she had a vote? Not a bit of it. Well, then, why go about smacking the faces of policemen and chaining yourself to a railing? If I had my way - ’
    Major Ames became of lower voice and greater confidence.
    â€˜Amy doesn’t wholly agree with me,’ he said, ‘and it’s a pleasure to thrash the matter out with somebody like yourself, who has sensible views on the subject. What use are women in politics? None at all, as you just said. It’s for women to rock the cradle, and rule the world. I say, and I have always said, that to give them a vote would be to wreck their influence, God bless them. But Amy doesn’t agree with me. I say that I will vote - she’s a Conservative, of course, and so am I - I will vote as she wishes me to. But she says it’s the principle of the thing, not the practice. But what she calls principle, I call want of principle. Home: that’s the woman’s sphere.’
    Mrs Evans gave a little sigh.
    â€˜I never heard it so beautifully expressed,’ she said. ‘Major Ames, why don’t you go in for politics?’
    Major Ames felt himself flattered; he felt also that he deserved the flattery. Hence, to him now, it ceased to beflattery, and became a tribute. He became more confidential, and vastly more vapid.
    â€˜My dear lady,’ he said, ‘politics is a dirty business nowadays. We can serve our cause best by living a quiet and dignified life, without ostentation, as you see, but by being gentlemen. It is the silent protest against these socialistic ideas that will tell in the long run. What should I do at Westminster? Upon my soul, if I found myself sitting opposite those Radical louts, it would take me all my time to keep my temper. No, no, let me attend to my garden, and give my friends good dinners - bless my soul, Amy is letting us have an ice tonight - strawberry ice, I expect; that was why she asked me whether there were plenty of strawberries. Glace de fraises; she likes her menu cards printed in French, though I am sure “strawberry ice” would tell us all we wanted to know. What’s in a name after all?’
    Conversation had already shifted, and Major Ames turned swiftly to a dry-skinned Mrs Brooks who sat on his left. She was a sad high-church widow who embroidered a great deal. Her dress was outlined with her own embroideries, so, too, were many altar cloths at the church of St Barnabas. She and Mrs Ames had a sort of religious rivalry over its decoration; the one arranged the copious white lilies that crowned the cloth made by the other. Their rivalry was not without silent jealousy, and it was already quite well known that Mrs Brooks had said that lilies of the valley were quite as suitable as Madonna lilies, which shed a nasty yellow pollen on the altar cloth. But Madonna lilies were larger; a decoration required fewer ‘blooms’. In other moods also she was slightly acid.
    Mrs Evans turned slowly to her right, where Harry was sitting. She might almost be supposed to know that she had a lovely neck, at least it was hard to think that she had lived with it for