The end of the journey brought them to grey streets and winding alleys where the masts and rigging that had loomed suddenly in the distance, robbing the expedition of its promise of ending in some strange remoteness with their suggestion of blind busy worlds beyond London, were lost to sight.
“This must be the docks,” she said politely.
With the curt permission of a sentinel policeman they went through a gateway appearing suddenly before them in a high grey wall. Miriam hurried forward to meet the open scene for one moment alone and found herself on a little quay surrounding a square basin of motionless grey water shut in by wooden galleries, stacked with mouldering casks. But the air was the air that moves softly on still days over wide waters and in the shadowed light of the enclosure, the fringe of green where the water touched the grey stone of the quay gleamed brilliantly in the stillness. She breathed in, in spite of herself, the charm of the scene; an ordered completeness, left to itself in beauty; its lonely beauty to be gathered only by the chance passerby.
“This is a strange romantic place,” said Mr. Shatov conversationally by her side.
“There is nothing,” said Miriam unwillingly, feeling her theme weaken as she looked away from it to voice well-known words, “ Nothing that reveals more completely the spiritual,” her voice gave over the word which broke into meaninglessness upon the air, “the status of a man as his estimate of women.”
“I entirely agree. I was a feminist in my college days. I am still a feminist.”
Miriam pondered. The word was new to her. But how could anyone be a feminist and still think women most certainly inferior beings?