On her lapel was an ivory button, bearing the words “Votes for Women. No doubt they've all been rejected; but he couldn't throw them overboard. She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. ’ ‘Parbleu,’ burst from Melusine indignantly. . ” “I say,” she reflected, “you ARE rather the master, you know.
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