But for the fact that Sir Henry was behind him, his journalistic career would hardly have lasted very long. Aitchison, the Comet editor, could never use more than a fraction of the stuff he sent in, though personally he liked the youth well enough and was sorry to see him slaving away at tasks for which he had so little aptitude.

Meanwhile, at the Bloomsbury house, A.J.’s friendship with Philippa continued and perhaps a little progressed. Gradually and at first imperceptibly a warmer feeling uprose on his side, but there was nothing tumultuous in it; indeed, he chaffed himself in secret for indulging something so mild and purposeless. He had certainly nothing to hope for; apart from his own lack of prospects, she had so often, in the course of their talks, conveyed how little she cared for men and for the conventional woman’s career of marriage and home life. Nor, for that matter, had A.J. any particularly domestic dreams. In a way, that was why she attracted him so much; she was so unlike the usual type of girl who fussed and expected to be fussed over.

Then suddenly something quite astonishing happened. It was rather like the Smalljohn episode at Barrowhurst; it occurred so sharply and unexpectedly, and to the completest surprise of those who thought that A.J. was, if anything, too sober a fellow. Philippa, he discovered, was an ardent supporter of the woman’s suffrage movement, though, in deference to Sir Henry’s views on the matter, she kept her ardours out of the house. She was not a militant, but Sir Henry made no distinctions of such a kind; he was genuinely and comprehensively indignant over the burnings, picture-slashings, and other outrages of which the newspapers were full. Philippa realised how hopeless it was to convert him, while as for A.J., she probably did not consider his support even worth the trouble of securing. Yet, without effort, it was secured. A.J., in fact, dashed into the movement with an enthusiasm which even his greatest friends considered rather fatuous; there was no stopping him; he went to meetings, walked in processions, and wasted hours of his time writing propagandist articles which Aitchison turned down with ever-increasing acerbity. He really was caught up in a whirl of passionate indignation, and neither Sir Henry’s anger nor Philippa’s indifference could check the surge of that emotion.

The whole thing ended in quite a ridiculous fiasco; he got himself arrested for attacking a policeman who was trying to arrest a suffragette who had just thrown a can of paint into a cabinet minister’s motor-car. The magistrate seemed glad to have a man to be severe with; he gave A.J. seven days, without the option of a fine, and, of course, the case was prominently reported in all the papers.

At Brixton jail A.J. thought at first he would hunger-strike, but he soon perceived that hunger-striking during a seven-days’ sentence could not be very effective; the authorities would merely let him do it. He therefore took the prison food and spent most of his time in rather miserable perplexity. He had, he began to realise, made a complete ass of himself.

When he was discharged at the end of the week he hoped and rather expected that Philippa, at any rate, would have some word of sympathy for him. Instead of that, she greeted him very frigidly. “What an extraordinary thing to do!” was all she commented. Sir Henry was far from frigid; he was as furious as a man of eighty dare permit himself to be. He had A.J. in the library for over an hour telling him what he thought. A.J. must clear out—that was the general gist of the discourse; Sir Henry would no longer permit their names to be connected in any way. If A.J. chose to emigrate (which seemed the best solution of the problem), Sir Henry would give him a hundred pounds as a final expression of regard—but it was to be definitely final—no pathetic letters begging for more. A.J. said: “You needn’t fear that, anyhow.” In the midst of the rather unpleasant discussion, Philippa entered the library, fresh and charming as usual, whereupon Sir Henry, his mood changing in an instant, remarked: “Perhaps, my dear, we had better tell Ainsley our piece of news.”

She barely nodded and Sir Henry went on, more severely as he turned to A.J.—“Philippa has done me the honour of promising to be my wife.”

A.J.