I'm _miserable_, mother, and it's some relief to me to say
so. If I could become honourably the wife of Michael Rossiter I'm
afraid I should let Suffrage have the go-by. But as I can't, why
this struggle for the vote is the only thing that keeps me going. I
shall fight for it for another ten years, and by that time certain
physiological changes may have taken place in me, and my feelings
towards Rossiter will have calmed down."
(Here Mrs. Warren proceeded to call out rather disharmoniously in
Flemish to the poultry woman, and asked why the something-or-other
she let the Houdans spoil the seed beds.)
_Mrs. Warren_ resuming: "Well it's clear you're your father's
daughter. 'E'd 'ave gone on--_did_ go on--in just such a way. 'Im
and me were jolly well suited to one another. I'd got to reg'lar
love 'im. I'd 'a bin a true wife to him, and 'ave worked my fingers
to the bone for 'im, and you bet I'd 'ave made a livin' somehow. And
he'd have written some jolly good books and 'ave made lots of money.
But no! This beastly Religion comes in with its scare of Hell fire
and back 'e goes to the priests and 'is prayers and 'is penances.
The last ten years or so 'e's bin filled up with pride. 'Is passions
'ave died down and 'e thinks 'imself an awful swell as the head of
his Order. And they do say as 'e's got 'is fingers in several pies
and is a reg'lar old conspirator, working up the Irish to do
something against England.
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