ace, perpetually going through the
motion of dealing cards or drinking tea. Then some old fogy will spend
ten years in research, and pronounce her an excellent example of the
extinct race "_Femina Anglica_."'

'As one of the tyrants who wishes you well,' said Selwyn, after a laugh
in which she joined, 'may I be permitted to know what women want--or
think they want?'

'Mr. Selwyn, revolutions never come from people who think. That is why
they are so terrible. The unhappiness of so many Englishwomen comes
from the life which does not demand or permit the use of half the
powers they possess. Nor does it satisfy half their longings. Such a
condition produces either stagnation or revolution. Our ultimatum
is--give us a life which demands all our resources and permits women
unlimited opportunity for self-development.

'And if the men cannot do this?'

'The women will have to take charge.'

'And when does the ultimatum expire?'

She shrugged her shoulders.

'When will the next great earthquake be?'

VII.

The noise of the party in the _cabinet particulier_ had been growing
apace with the reinforcement of champagne-bottles. The strident
laughter of the women dominated the lower level of men's voices, and
there was a constant clinking of glasses, punctuated by the occasional
drawing of a cork, which always whipped the gaiety to a feverish pitch.
Monsieur Beauchamp rubbed his hands rather anxiously. He would have
preferred a little more intrigue and not quite so much noise. But,
then, was it not a testimony to his wine?--and certainly there would be
an excellent bill.

One of the men in the party called on some one for a song. There was a
hammering on the table, a promise of a kiss in a girl's voice that
trailed off into a tipsy giggle, the sound of shuffling chairs and
accompanying hilarity as the singer was apparently hoisted on to the
table. There came a crash of breaking glass as his foot collided with
some dinner-things.

Monsieur Beauchamp winced, but consoled himself with the reflection
that he could charge what he wished for the damage. The voices were
hushed at the order of the singer, who was trying to enunciate the
title of his song.

'I shall shing,' he said, with considerable difficulty, '"Moon, Moon,
Boo--(hic)--Booful Moon," composhed by myself at the early age of
sheven months. It ish very pash--pashesh--it ish very shad, so, if ye
have tearsh, pre--(hic)--pare to shed 'em now.'