“And, Keggo,” (she is explaining it) “I’m going to be like that. I’m going to be what a man can be. Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t a woman?” She paused and then went on. “Why, that’s the thing that’s been with me all my life, ever since I can remember. I’ve always known that men were the creatures. Always. Since I was so high. Oh, I used to have the most ridiculous ideas about them. You’d scream, Keggo. And I’ve always had the same attitude towards them--towards them as contrasted with women, I mean. First awe, then envy, then, since I’ve been growing up here, just as having a desirable position in life, as having the desirable position in life, independence, a career, work, freedom, a goal--yes, and a goal that’s always and always a little bit in front of you, always something better. That’s the thing. That’s the thing, Keggo. Just look at the other side. Take a case in point. Take my painful cousin, Laetitia, sweet but in lots of ways very painful. What’s her goal? A good match! A good match! Did you ever hear anything so futile and sickening? Sickening in itself, but I’ll tell you what’s really sickening about it--why, that she’ll get it--get her goal and then it’s done, over, finished, won. Settle down then and get fat. Oh, I don’t want a goal I can win. I want a goal I can’t win. One that’s always just in front.” She suddenly realised the intensity of her voice and laughed and shook her head sideways and back. She had just recently put her hair up and it still felt funny and tight and the laugh and the shake eased away the tightness of voice and of hair. She said thoughtfully, “You know, I believe I’m rather like a man in many ways, in points of view. It’s through always thinking them better, I daresay. The ideas I’ve had about them!” and she laughed again. She said slowly, “Though mind you, Keggo, they are better in many ways. They can get away from things. They don’t stick about on one thing. And they’re violent, not fussing. When they’re angry they bawl and hit and it’s over and they forget it. They don’t just nag on and on. Oh, yes, they’re better.” She extended her palms to the oil flame, and watching the X-ray-like effects of the light and shadow upon her fingers, she added indifferently, as one idly letting drop a remark requiring no comment, negligently with the voice of one saying “Tomorrow is Tuesday,” or “It’s mutton today,”--“Of course they’re beasts,” she added. “Of course they’re beasts.” It was the adjusted image to which she had brought that other perception of men which, running parallel with the perception of their superior position, had permeated her childhood years. CHAPTER IV She’s left the school! She’s living in the splendid house in Pilchester Square looking for a post! She’s found a post! She’s private secretary to Mr. Simcox!