She sat down; and Rosalind rose.

“Miss Harrison,” she said, “will explain her position to the Committee later.  This is an open meeting till seven.  It is now five minutes to.  Will any of you here”—­she held the eleven with her eyes—­“who were not present at the meeting in the Town Hall last Monday, hold up your hands.  No hands.  Then you must all be aware of the object and the policy and the rules of the Women’s Franchise Union.  Its members pledge themselves to help, as far as they can, the object of the Union; to support the decisions of their leaders; to abstain from public and private criticism of those decisions and of any words or actions of their leaders; and to obey orders—­not blindly or unquestioningly, but within the terms of their undertakings.

“Those of you who wish to join us will please write your names and addresses on the slips of white paper, stating what kind of work you are willing to do and the amount of your subscription, if you subscribe, and hand your slips to the Secretary at the door, as you go out.”

Miss Burstall and Miss Farmer went out.  Miss Blackadder counted—­“One—­two—­”

Eight of the eleven young girls signed and handed in the white slips at the door, and went out.

“Three—­four—­”

Miss Blackadder reckoned that Dorothea Harrison’s speech had cost her five recruits.  Her own fighting speech had carried the eleven in a compact body to her side:  Dorothea’s speech had divided and scattered them again.

Miss Blackadder hurled her personality at the heads of audiences in the certainty that it would hit them hard.  That was what she was there for.  She knew that the Women’s Franchise union relied on her to wring from herself the utmost spectacular effect.  And she did it every time.  She never once missed fire.  And Dorothea Harrison had come down on the top of her triumph and destroyed the effect of all her fire.  She had corrupted five recruits.  And, supposing there was a secret program, she had betrayed the women of the Union to fourteen outsiders, by giving it away.  Treachery or no treachery, Dorothea Harrison would have to pay for it.

* * * * *

Everybody had gone except the members of the Committee and Phyllis Desmond who waited for her friend, Maud Blackadder.

Dorothy remembered Phyllis Desmond now; she was that art-student girl that Vera knew.  She had seen her at Vera’s house.

They had drawn round the table again.  Miss Blackadder and Miss Gilchrist conferred in whispers.

“Before we go,” said Rosalind, “I propose that we ask Miss Dorothea Harrison to be our Vice-President.”

Miss Gilchrist nodded to Miss Blackadder who rose.  It was her moment.

“And I propose,” she said, “that before we invite Miss Harrison to be anything we ask her to define her position—­clearly and precisely.”

She made a sign, and the Secretary was on her feet.