“Same thing; only more of it,” giggled Mr. Leyton.
“If it’s half past I must go,” announced Miriam peremptorily. Two watches came out.
“Then I advise you to hook it pretty sharp; it’s twenty to. You’d better read that article my son.” Miriam folded her serviette.
“Righto. Don’t worry.”
“ Why all this mystery? Good morning,” said Miriam departing.
“Good morning,” said the two voices. Mr. Leyton held the door open and raised his voice to follow her up the stairs. “We’re discussing matters somewhat beyond your ken.”
She could not stay. She could not have tackled him if she had stayed. Anger was perhaps as funny as embarrassment. He would have been shocked at the idea of her quietly considering the results of Schenck’s theory, if it proved to be true; beyond her ken, indeed. It was hateful to have to leave that; he ought to be robbed of the one thing that he imagined gave him an advantage in the presence of women. The women in his world would be embarrassed by the discussion of anything to do with the reproduction of the race. Why? Why were the women embarrassed and the men always suggestive and facetious? If only the men could realise what they admitted by their tone; what attitude towards life. …
It was a bitter east-wind; the worst kind of day there was. All along Oxford Street were women in furs, serene, with smooth warm faces untroubled by the bleak black wind, perhaps even enjoying the cold. Miriam struggled along, towards the cruel east, shivering, her face shrivelled and frozen and burning, her brain congealed. If she were free she could at least have a cup of coffee and get warm and go into the