ROM the cool of the old-fashioned arch of Wine Office Court a tall young man plunged into the stream swirling down Fleet Street. At the Law Courts he glanced up at the clock and came to an irresolute halt by the curbstone. As he stared idly a girl popped out from behind a taxicab and proceeded to cross the road.
She was of medium height, dark as a Spaniard and walked with the self-reliant swing of the American woman. A cream soft hat, devoid of any decoration save a dark tassel, and her loose Holland costume gave her a cool capable appearance. She saw him when half-way across the road, acknowledged his salute and changed her course as a taxi came whirring up behind her.
He started forward in alarm as the machine bore down upon her, hooting dismally. She glanced over her shoulder as if measuring the distance and increased her pace by a fraction. The cab shot by her with scarcely a foot to spare. He had stepped back on to the pavement hurriedly, sheepishly. She looked up as she held out her hand, her large eyes observing him amusedly, and remarked—
"Well, what's the news?"
"Oh, nothing certain."
"Well, come and have tea with me?" She moved on, leaving him to overtake her in a stride.
"Yes, I'll take you to tea, Miriam."
She glanced at him.
"But 'nobody asked you, sir, she said!’"
"Well, of course it comes to the same thing," he retorted.
"Nothing of the sort! I asked you to tea with me. Don't start that idiotic argument all over again."
"But—but—it's—I've told you; I can't let a girl pay"
"Rubbish; you're too English! You'd better tea by yourself." He hesitated, frowning.
She looked up at him with a laugh; then her lips tightened.
"It isn't the fact of the things; it's the principle."
"Yes, I know," he said as they turned toward a tea-room in the cool quietude of Clifford's Inn. "You've explained that fact most lucidly, but all the same"
"You think that because you're a man," she caught him up, "that it's an insult to your dignity. Rubbish!"
"As a matter of fact," she began again as soon as they were seated and had ordered tea, "you have an idea that it is symbolical of the rights of women."
"Oh, Lord!" he groaned.
She laughed.
"Women who earn their own living have a perfect right to equality with men. There are men who are just as incapable, just as inefficient as any woman. But there are women—I, Lordly Creature," tapping him on the shin with a dainty foot, "I am quite as capable of earning my living as you—Salt of the Earth!"
He smiled indulgently.
"Yes; in some cases. But even then it never is the same work as a man does."
"Poof, and why not?"
"Well, as dressmakers, milliners, needle-workers and—and all that sort of thing, and even then men"
He paused doubtfully, gazing at her twitching lips.
"Sugar, Lordly Creature?"
"Don't be a fool, Miriam!" he said sourly. "A woman's place is behind the shelter of man. He works, fights, conquers, to her gain."
"Are you fighting and conquering for a woman's gain?"
"Just like a woman!" he retorted. "Mere sentimentality."
"Exactly what is sentimentality?"
"Love—and all that."
"Dear me! Really?"
Their glances met. He laughed with the satisfaction of one parrying a dangerous thrust from the enemy.
"Sentimental bosh of the worst description. Plato"
"Plato is dead! Live and see for yourself. You'll find out one day!"
"I?" He laughed derisively. "My dear Miriam, one of the great points that I value is that we can be pals, that you never expect me—like every other girl—to make love to you."
Her eyes twinkled. She opened her lips to say something, changed her mind and said—
"Have some more tea, Alan?"
"No, thanks," he said looking at his watch, "I must run up to the office. If there's any fresh development in the Moroccan imbroglio I may have to get away immediately. By the way, Miriam, if I should have to leave in a hurry I sha'n't have time to run home, so you might make a point of seeing the mater and—explaining things. She's always absurdly anxious, imagines things"
"And doesn't understand men's affairs, eh? But supposing I can't get away?"
"Why not? You've only the usual shop to attend to."
"But I might go abroad, too."
He laughed indulgently.
"My dear child, you're a brilliant journalist—for a woman."
"Thank you!" she said with a short laugh.
"But—oh, women are very well within limits but"
"What limits, pray?"
"Well, you know what your work is—at races, balls, crushes and all that sort of thing—social work, but"
"Well, but what? Go on."