At that moment the voice of Mrs. Rust was heard in the passage outside. “Miss Briggs.”
Courtesy ran clumsily from the cabin.
“That button,” said Mrs. Rust. “You said you would.... Myself I never can remember which finger I ought to wear my thimble on, or at what angle the needle should be held....”
Anybody else, arrived within three feet of the suffragette’s door, would have thrown a smile round the corner. But Mrs. Rust did not. She did possess a heart, I am told, but a heart is such a hackneyed thing that she concealed it.
“What do you intend to do when you get to Trinity Islands?” asked the suffragette.
“I don’t know what we shall do,” replied the gardener. “I hate knowing about the future. I am leaving it—not to fate, but to my future self.”
“Don’t you believe in fate?”
“No. I believe in myself. I believe I can do exactly what I like.”
“And what about me? Can’t I do exactly what I like? Do you think you can do exactly what you like with me?” asked the suffragette militantly.
“So far I seem to have succeeded even in that.”