difference?  Because you have always had your own way.

Annys.  Oh!

Geoffrey.  You have got so used to it, you don’t notice it.

Annys.  Then it will be good for me.  I must learn to suffer opposition.  (She laughs.)

Geoffrey.  You won’t like it.

Annys.  Do you know, I’m not at all sure that I shan’t.  (Unconsciously they let loose of one another.)  You see, I shall have the right of hitting back.  (Again she laughs.)

Geoffrey.  (Also laughingly.)  Is woman going to develop the fighting instinct?

Annys.  I wonder.

(A moment’s silence.)

Geoffrey.  The difficulty in our case is there seems nothing to fight about.

Annys.  We must think of something.  (Laughs.)

Geoffrey.  What line are you going to take—what is your argument: why they should vote for you in preference to me?

Annys.  Simply that I am a woman.

Geoffrey.  My dear child, that won’t be enough.  Why should they vote for you merely because you’re a woman?

Annys.  (Slightly astonished.)  Because—because women are wanted in public life.

Geoffrey.  Who wants them?

Annys.  (More astonished.)  Who?  Why—(it doesn’t seem too clear.)  Why, all of us—you, yourself!

Geoffrey.  I’m not East Poplar.

Annys.  (Is puzzled a moment, then valiantly.)  I shall ask them to send me to Parliament to represent the interests of their women—and therefore of themselves—the interests of their children.

Geoffrey.  Children!  What do you know about children?

(Another silence.)

Annys.  Personally—no.  We have had no children of our own, of course.  But (hopefully) it is a woman’s instinct.

Geoffrey.  Oh, Lord!  That’s what the lady said who had buried seven.

Annys.  (Her mouth is growing hard.)  Don’t you believe in the right of women to share in the government of the country?

Geoffrey.  Some women.  Yes.  I can see some capable—

Annys.  (Winces.)

Geoffrey.  —elderly, motherly woman who has brought up a dozen children of her own—who knows the world, being of some real use.

Annys.  If it comes to that, there must be—I don’t say more “capable,” but more experienced, more fatherly men than yourself.

(He turns, they look at one another.  His tone almost touched contempt—hers was veiled anger.)

Geoffrey.  That’s the danger.  It may come to a real fight.

Annys.  (Upon her also the fear has fallen.)  It must not.  (She flings her arms around him.)  We must show the world that man and woman can meet—contend in public life without anger, without scorn.

Geoffrey.  (He folds her to him.)  The very words sound ugly, don’t they?

Annys.  It would be hideous.  (She draws away.)  How long will the election last?

Geoffrey.  Not long.  The writ will be issued on Wednesday.  Nomination on Monday—polling, I expect, on Saturday.  Puts me in mind—I must prepare my election address.

Annys.  I ought to be getting on with mine, too, I suppose.

Geoffrey.  It ought to be out by to-morrow.

Annys.  (With inspiration.)  We’ll do yours first.  (She wonders why he hesitates.)

Geoffrey.  “We?”  Shan’t I have to do it alone—this time?