Miriam saw her keeping house, dressmaking, and yet free to wander abroad in the sunlight, and to come home, full of the life and brightness of London, to rest and read, with her feet up, “to counteract the strain upon the heart, of the upright posture” following the example of “those sensible Americans who discuss business with their feet on the mantelshelf.” She judged unconventionalities according as they did or did not serve the cause of hygiene. “Much” she finished hurriedly, as if to avoid further postponing anything Miriam might be going to say, “_Much_ can be done with a damp duster.” Miriam wondered whether, after all, housework might not hold some strange charm. Something that was lacking in a life lived altogether in the world of men; altogether on the surface of things. Always, in relation to household women, she felt herself a man. Felt that they included her with a half-contemptuous indulgence, in the world of men. Some of them, those to whom the man’s world was still an exciting mystery, were a little jealous and spiky. As if encouraged by silence, Miss Holland pursued her theme. “I have a horror of becoming an _official_ woman. It is, I think, a most obnoxious type. It abounds. In London it is to be met wherever women are in positions of responsibility. Real or fancied. And it is on the increase. There have, of course, always been official women. Even in rural districts, where, most unfortunately, they have but one sphere of activity. We used to call them the curates-in-charge.” Vicarage humour at first hand. Miriam laughed suitably; ensconced, an eavesdropper. “Church workers.” “They are the bane of a parish. Work, yes. That they most certainly do, to the accompaniment of loud complaints on the score of other people’s inactivity. Implying, of course, that they themselves hold a monopoly of intelligence and efficiency. Whereas the truth is to be found in their inability to attract helpers or to collaborate with those who really desire to take part in the work. These women are actuated solely by personal ambition, the desire to run the parish and to be openly recognised as doing so. Nothing less will content them. Nothing less. It is a _most_ perturbing spectacle. And I, for one, have no hesitation in admitting that I am driven to the conclusion that authority is harmful to women. They grow so _hard_. So _coldly_ self-important and dictatorial.” Miriam knew she would want to run the parish, choose the music, edit the vicar’s mind, lecture the parishioners. “In London many of them are social workers. They spend their time on committees. But not in service. They quell.”