He turned another page. "Do you suffer from gout? Classical lady
preparing to take a bath and very nearly ready. The old Johnny in the
train stops to look at her. Reads the advertisement because she seems to
want him to. Rubber heels. Save your boot leather! Lady in evening
dress--jolly pretty shoulders--waves them in front of your eyes.
Otherwise you'd never think of them."

He fluttered the pages. Then flung the thing across to her.

"Look at it," he said. "Fountain pens--Corn plasters--Charitable
appeals--Motor cars--Soaps--Grand pianos. It's the girl in tights and
spangles outside the show that brings them trooping in."

"Let them see you," he continued. "You say you want soldiers. Throw off
your veil and call for them. Your namesake of France! Do you think if
she had contented herself with writing stirring appeals that Orleans
would have fallen? She put on a becoming suit of armour and got upon a
horse where everyone could see her. Chivalry isn't dead. You modern
women are ashamed of yourselves--ashamed of your sex. You don't give it
a chance. Revive it. Stir the young men's blood. Their souls will
follow."

He reseated himself and leant across towards her.

"I'm not talking business," he said. "This thing's not going to mean
much to me one way or the other. I want you to win. Farm labourers
bringing up families on twelve and six a week. Shirt hands working half
into the night for three farthings an hour. Stinking dens for men to
live in. Degraded women. Half fed children. It's damnable. Tell them