coat fell to the floor so I picked it up—
et voilà.
I expect he abandoned it in the cloakroom at Brooks without even knowing what it was. He's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”
“Poor soul. He's very good-natured,” Chastity said kindly.
“Yes, sweetheart. And so are you.” Constance kissed her cheek as she held the door for her sisters. “Prue and I should take a leaf out of your book.”
“I can be nasty,” Chastity said with a touch of indignation. “As nasty as anyone, in the right circumstances.”
Her sisters laughed, linked arms with her, and went up to bed.
Chapter 4
W hat are we to do about these suffragists?” demanded the Prime Minister, seating himself heavily in a large leather armchair in the Members' Lounge in the House of Commons. Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman had a perpetually preoccupied, worried air that was not diminished by the large goblet of post-luncheon cognac in front of him and the fat cigar he drew on with obvious satisfaction.
“The Pankhurst woman has started up her Women's Social and Political Union in London now. At least while they stayed in Manchester we could ignore them for the most part.” He examined the ashy tip of his cigar critically. “Now we can expect petitions and delegations and excitable meetings right on our own doorstep.”
“Appeasement,” one of his companions suggested. “We'll get nowhere by provoking them. Promise them a steering committee; it doesn't have to come to anything.”
Max Ensor leaned across the glossy surface of the low table in the square formed by the armchairs of the four men who were digesting a particularly substantial lunch with an equally fine cognac. He pushed a copy of
The Mayfair Lady
towards the Prime Minister, and indicated the black boxed headline: WILL THE LIBERAL GOVERNMENT GIVE VOTES TO WOMEN TAXPAYERS ?
“This seems to be a particularly sensitive issue. We could announce that we're establishing a committee to discover how many women taxpayers and ratepayers there are in the country. That would quieten them down, at least for the moment.”
Sir Henry picked up the newspaper. “A copy of this found its way into the Cabinet Office,” he said. “How the devil did it get in there? I've asked all the staff but no one will admit to it.”
“You see it everywhere . . . they'll be wrapping fish and chips in it next.” One of the four gave a sardonic laugh as he reached for his goblet on the table.
“Does anyone have any idea who writes it?” the Prime Minister asked.
“Not a clue.” Two of his three companions shrugged in agreement. “Perhaps it's the Pankhurst women.”
“No, they're too busy organizing meetings and protests. Besides, it has its lighter side. I don't see Mrs. Pankhurst indulging herself in society gossip and fashion news. And in the latest edition they're offering some marriage broker service. The Go-Between, they call it. What with that and this Aunt Mabel, who'll wrestle with your love problems, I doubt the Pankhursts would sully their eyes or their hands with it.”
“But it's a clever strategy,” Max said. “Most ladies wouldn't be in the least interested in a political tract, but they are interested in the other stories on offer—”
“I notice you're mentioned in this one,” one of his fellows interrupted with a deep chuckle. “Quite complimentary, really.”
Max looked less than gratified. “It's arrant nonsense,” he said shortly. “But my point still stands. Women who wouldn't ordinarily think about these issues will have their attention drawn to them the minute they leaf through the paper.”
“If we're not careful, we'll have our wives and daughters waving placards on the steps of every town hall in the city,” muttered Herbert Asquith from the depths of his armchair.
“Whoever wrote it had to have been present at the Beekmans' soirée,” the Chancellor of the Exchequer continued. “No one could have written this commentary on Ensor without having
et voilà.
I expect he abandoned it in the cloakroom at Brooks without even knowing what it was. He's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”
“Poor soul. He's very good-natured,” Chastity said kindly.
“Yes, sweetheart. And so are you.” Constance kissed her cheek as she held the door for her sisters. “Prue and I should take a leaf out of your book.”
“I can be nasty,” Chastity said with a touch of indignation. “As nasty as anyone, in the right circumstances.”
Her sisters laughed, linked arms with her, and went up to bed.
Chapter 4
W hat are we to do about these suffragists?” demanded the Prime Minister, seating himself heavily in a large leather armchair in the Members' Lounge in the House of Commons. Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman had a perpetually preoccupied, worried air that was not diminished by the large goblet of post-luncheon cognac in front of him and the fat cigar he drew on with obvious satisfaction.
“The Pankhurst woman has started up her Women's Social and Political Union in London now. At least while they stayed in Manchester we could ignore them for the most part.” He examined the ashy tip of his cigar critically. “Now we can expect petitions and delegations and excitable meetings right on our own doorstep.”
“Appeasement,” one of his companions suggested. “We'll get nowhere by provoking them. Promise them a steering committee; it doesn't have to come to anything.”
Max Ensor leaned across the glossy surface of the low table in the square formed by the armchairs of the four men who were digesting a particularly substantial lunch with an equally fine cognac. He pushed a copy of
The Mayfair Lady
towards the Prime Minister, and indicated the black boxed headline: WILL THE LIBERAL GOVERNMENT GIVE VOTES TO WOMEN TAXPAYERS ?
“This seems to be a particularly sensitive issue. We could announce that we're establishing a committee to discover how many women taxpayers and ratepayers there are in the country. That would quieten them down, at least for the moment.”
Sir Henry picked up the newspaper. “A copy of this found its way into the Cabinet Office,” he said. “How the devil did it get in there? I've asked all the staff but no one will admit to it.”
“You see it everywhere . . . they'll be wrapping fish and chips in it next.” One of the four gave a sardonic laugh as he reached for his goblet on the table.
“Does anyone have any idea who writes it?” the Prime Minister asked.
“Not a clue.” Two of his three companions shrugged in agreement. “Perhaps it's the Pankhurst women.”
“No, they're too busy organizing meetings and protests. Besides, it has its lighter side. I don't see Mrs. Pankhurst indulging herself in society gossip and fashion news. And in the latest edition they're offering some marriage broker service. The Go-Between, they call it. What with that and this Aunt Mabel, who'll wrestle with your love problems, I doubt the Pankhursts would sully their eyes or their hands with it.”
“But it's a clever strategy,” Max said. “Most ladies wouldn't be in the least interested in a political tract, but they are interested in the other stories on offer—”
“I notice you're mentioned in this one,” one of his fellows interrupted with a deep chuckle. “Quite complimentary, really.”
Max looked less than gratified. “It's arrant nonsense,” he said shortly. “But my point still stands. Women who wouldn't ordinarily think about these issues will have their attention drawn to them the minute they leaf through the paper.”
“If we're not careful, we'll have our wives and daughters waving placards on the steps of every town hall in the city,” muttered Herbert Asquith from the depths of his armchair.
“Whoever wrote it had to have been present at the Beekmans' soirée,” the Chancellor of the Exchequer continued. “No one could have written this commentary on Ensor without having
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