Mitchener.  I mean a woman who would play the very devil if the other women didnt keep her in pretty strict order.  I dont approve of democracy, because its rot; and Im against giving the vote to women because Im not accustomed to it and therefore am able to see with an unprejudiced eye what infernal nonsense it is.  But I tell you plainly, Lady Corinthia, that there is one game that I dislike more than either Democracy or Votes For Women:  and that is the game of Antony and Cleopatra.  If I must be ruled by women, let me have decent women and not—­well, not the other sort.

Lady Corinthia.  You have a coarse mind, General Mitchener.

Mitchener.  So has Mrs. Banger.  And by George!  I prefer Mrs. Banger to you!

Lady Corinthia (bounding to her feet.) You prefer Mrs. Banger to me!!!

Mitchener.  I do.  You said yourself she was splendid.

Lady Corinthia.  You are no true man.  You are one of those unsexed creatures who have no joy in life, no sense of beauty, no high notes.

Mitchener.  No doubt I am, Madam.  As a matter of fact, I am not clever at discussing public questions, because, as an English gentleman, I was not brought up to use my brains.  But occasionally, after a number of remarks which are perhaps sometimes rather idiotic, I get certain convictions.  Thanks to you, I have now got a conviction that this woman question is not a question of lovely and accomplished females, but of dowdies.  The average Englishwoman is a dowdy and never has half a chance of becoming anything else.  She hasnt any charm; and she has no high notes except when shes giving her husband a piece of her mind, or calling down the street for one of the children.

Lady Corinthia.  How disgusting!

Mitchener.  Somebody must do the dowdy work!  If we had to choose between pitching all the dowdies into the Thames and pitching all the lovely and accomplished women, the lovely ones would have to go.

Lady Corinthia.  And if you had to do without Wagner’s music or do without your breakfast, you would do without Wagner.  Pray does that make eggs and bacon more precious than music, or the butcher and baker better than the poet and philosopher?  The scullery may be more necessary to our bare existence than the cathedral.  Even humbler apartments might make the same claim.  But which is the more essential to the higher life?

Mitchener.  Your arguments are so devilishly ingenious that I feel convinced you got them out of some confounded book.  Mine—­such as they are—­are my own.  I imagine its something like this.  There is an old saying that if you take care of the pence, the pounds will take care of themselves.  Well, perhaps if we take care of the dowdies and the butchers and the bakers, the beauties and the bigwigs will take care of themselves. (Rising and facing her determinedly.) Anyhow, I dont want to have things arranged for me by Wagner.  Im not Wagner.  How does he know where the shoe pinches me?  How do you know where the shoe pinches your washerwoman?—­you and your high F in alt.  How are you to know when you havent made her comfortable unless she has a vote?  Do you want her to come and break your windows?