"
"That's an appeal to sentiment," said Helena, resolutely. "Of course I
know it all sounds horrid. You've been as nice as possible; and anybody
who didn't sympathize with my views would think me a nasty, ungrateful
toad. But I'm not going to be coaxed into giving them up, any more than
I'm going to be bullied."
Lord Buntingford surveyed her. The habitual slight pucker--as though of
anxiety or doubt--in his brow was much in evidence. It might have meant
the chronic effort of a short-sighted man to see. But the fine candid
eyes were not short-sighted. The pucker meant something deeper.
"Of course I should like to understand what your views are," he said at
last, throwing away one cigarette, and lighting another.
Helena's look kindled. She looked handsomer and more maenad-like than
ever, as she stood leaning against Buntingford's writing-table, her arms
folded, one slim foot crossed over the other.
"The gist of them is," she said eagerly, "that _we_--the women of the
present day--are not going to accept our principles--moral--or
political--or economic--on anybody's authority.
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