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Ingpen. Wrapped in a stubborn silence, she had refused soup and was crunching salted almonds, her elbows on the table.

‘It’s very perverse to say that things as grim and as true could be written about us; I don’t accept that for a moment,’ she said, since Clive did not seem inclined to take up the challenge.

‘Don’t you?’ Ingpen turned his eyes on her and she felt a new edge in their raillery. ‘And what do you know about it? What does any woman know about our civilization? All you see is the tidied-up world we men present to you.’

‘Good Heavens! Where have you been living during the last twenty years! Do you really imagine that we don’t do as much tidying up as you do!—You’ve been a Rip van Winkle among the warrior tribes!’ laughed Monica. ‘And indeed, even before we gained all our modern freedoms, our function has always been to tidy up after you!—Hasn’t it, Hester?’ and she appealed for support to the avowed feminist. But, closely enveloped in her rosy shawl, Hester crunched her almonds and made no reply.

‘But exactly; — exactly,’ Ingpen was softly and rather disagreeably laughing. ‘You tidy up after us. It’s what you’ve always done, what you always will do—and very creditable it is to you. After we’ve