ends
suffered. It cannot be said that she argued. She demanded, aggressively
insisted on sex equality, on justice and right for women, right in every
sphere of life, political right, social right, economic right, all kinds
of other right.

This, of course, was in the old days before the war. Since August, 1914,
most things have changed. Professor Jocelyn, indeed, still lectures on
psychology, half-heartedly now, to a rapidly dwindling class of young
women. But Ned Jocelyn's name is painted in black letters on a brown
wooden cross at the head of a grave--one of a long row of graves--in a
French cemetery. Tom is trying to learn to walk without crutches in the
grounds of an English hospital. Mrs. Jocelyn is out in France, working
in a canteen, working very hard. It is only occasionally now that she
demands a "right;" but when she does, she demands it, so I understand,
with all her old ferocious determination to get it This is the story of
how she once demanded and took a "right."

It was nearly midday, and the camp lay under a blazing sun. It was early
in July, when all England and all France were throbbing with hope, pride
and terror as the news of the "Big Push" came in day by day. There
was little calm, and few hearts at ease in those days, but Number 50
Convalescent Camp looked peaceful enough. It is miles from the firing
line. No shells ever burst over it or near it. Only occasionally can the
distant rumble of the guns be heard. A spell of dry weather had cracked
the clay of the paths which divided it into rectangles. The grass was
burnt and brown. The flower beds, in spite of diligent watering, looked
parched. The great white tents, marquees guyed up with many ropes, shone
with a blinding glare. In the strips of shade made by the fly sheets
of the tents, men lay in little groups. Their tunics were unbuttoned
or cast aside. They smoked and chatted, speaking slowly and briefly.
Oftener they slept.

Only in one corner of the camp was there any sign of activity. Near the
main entrance is the orderly room. Inside, a sweating adjutant toiled
at a mass of papers on the desk before him. From time to time a sergeant
entered the room, saluted, spoke sharply, received his orders, saluted
and went out again. From the clerk's room next door came the sound
of voices, the ceaseless clicking of a typewriter, and the frequent
clamorous summons of a telephone bell. Outside, orderlies hurried,
stepping quickly in one direction or an