The same night he met Meddoes and Drummond together, the latter over from Paris on a week’s leave from the Embassy. “Anna!” he exclaimed hoarsely. "I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!" cried Winifred, with difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; "you've acted unfairly. “I wish I could make every woman, every girl, see this as clearly as I see it—just what the Vote means to us. “Come this way,” he said. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. “Mr. “Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. ” He said.
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