“Warren!” That name stood out clear.  Did it mean the suffragette, Vivien Warren, who had sometimes been here, and in whose adventures her husband seemed so unbecomingly interested?  One of the great ladies who were Anti-Suffragists and had already decoyed Mrs. Rossiter within their drawing-rooms had referred with great disapproval to Miss Warren as the daughter of a most notorious woman whom their husbands wouldn’t hear mentioned because of her shocking past.  And David, David of course must be that tiresome David Williams, supposed to be a cousin of Vivien Warren, but really seeming in these allusions to be a disguise in which this bold female deceived people.  And “Mr. Michaelis?” Could that be her own Michael?  The shameless baggage!  She choked at the thought.  Was it a conspiracy into which they were luring her husband, already rather compromised as a man of science by his enthusiasm for the Suffrage cause?  People used to speak of Michael almost with awe, he was so clever, he made such wonderful discoveries.  Now, since he had become a politician he had many enemies, and several ladies of high title referred to him contemptuously even in her hearing and cut her without compunction, though she had Ten thousand a year.  She felt all the same a profound conviction that Michael was the most honourable of men.  Yet why all this mystery?  The W.S.P.U.?  Those letters stood for some more than usually malignant Suffrage Society.  She had seen the letters often in “Votes for Women."...

Her musings here were stayed by the sound of her husband’s steps in the passage.  Hastily she thrust the half sheet of charred paper into her corsage and brushed off the fragments of the burnt edges from her laces; then turned and affected to be tidying the writing table as Michael came in.

Rossiter:  “Linda!  Surely not putting my papers in order—­or rather disorder?  I thought you were far too intimate with my likes and dislikes to do that!...  Why, what’s the matter?”

Linda:  “Oh nothing.  I was only seeing if they had made up your fire.  I—­I—­haven’t touched anything.”

(Rossiter looked anxiously at the grate, but was relieved to see nothing but burnt, shrivelled squares of paper.  He poked the fire fiercely and at any rate demolished the remains of Vivie’s letter.)

Rossiter:  “Yes:  it isn’t very cheerful.  They must brighten it while we are at dinner; though as we shall go to the drawing-room afterwards we shan’t need a huge fire here.  There!  It looks better after that poke.  I threw some papers on it to start a flame just before I went up to dress....  Why dearie!  What cold hands and what flushed cheeks!"...

Linda:  “Oh Michael!  You’ll always love me, won’t you?  I—­I know I’m not clever, not half clever enough for you.  But I do try to help you all I can.  I—­I—­” (Sobs.)

Rossiter (really distressed):  “Of course I love you!  What silly notion have you got into your head?” (He asks himself anxiously “Surely all that letter was burnt before she came in?”) “Come!  Pull yourself together.  Be worthy of that dress.  It is such a beauty.”