ll grip on his hearers. In spite of
herself she was contrasting this fiasco with the pithy words of Mr.
Stocks. When the meeting became unruly she looked for some display of
character, some proof of power. Mr. Stocks would have fiercely cowed
the opposition, or at least have spoken the last word in any quarrel.
Lewis's conduct was different. He shrugged his shoulders, made some
laughing remark to a friend on the platform, and with all the
nonchalance in the world asked the meeting if they wished to hear any
more. A claque of his supporters replied with feigned enthusiasm, but a
malcontent at Alice's side rose and stamped to the door. "I came to
hear sense," he cried, "and no this bairn's-blethers!"

The poor girl was in despair. She had fancied him a man of power and
ambition, a doer, a man of action. But he was no more than a creature
of words and sentiment, graceful manners, and an engaging appearance.
The despised Mr. Stocks was the real worker. She had laughed at his
incessant solemnity as the badge of a fool, and adored Lewis's
light-heartedness as the true air of the great. But she had been
mistaken. Things were what they seemed. The light-hearted was the
half-hearted, "the wandering dilettante," Mr. Stocks had called him,
"the worst type of the pseudo-culture of our universities." She told
herself she hated the whole affectation of breeding and chivalry. Those
men--Lewis and his friends--were always kind and soft-spoken to her and
her sex. Her soul hated it; she cried aloud for equal treatment, for a
share of the iron and rigour of life. Their manners were a mere cloak
for contempt. If they could only be rude to a woman, it would be a
welcome relief from this facile condescension. What had she or any
woman with brains to do in that galley? They despised her kind, with
the scorn of sultans who chose their women-folk for looks and graces.
The thought was degrading, and a bitterness filled her heart against the
whole clique of easy aristocrats. Mr. Stocks was her true ally. To
him she was a woman, an equal; to them she was an engaging child, a
delicate toy.

So far she went in her heresy, but no farther. It is a true saying that
you will find twenty heroic women before you may meet one generous one;
but Alice was not wholly without this rarest of qualities. The memory
of a frank voice, very honest grey eyes, and a robust cheerfulness
brought back some affection for the erring Lewis. The problem was
beyond her reco