Fr-r-r-r-rup! Frr-r-roosh! Woosh! Fr-r-r-roosh!
It is the holder of the illuminated address from the Rajah of Puttapongpoo most terribly and fear-strikingly struggling up out of his soup. “Don’t want to be a pupil teacher? Wat d’ye mean? Wat d’ye mean?”
“Why, Rosalie, darling!” It is the exquisitely beautiful daughter of the holder of the illuminated address from the Rajah of Puttapongpoo.
“Never mind them, Rosalie. The dear child! Why, how crimson she is. Let the dear child speak. What is it, dear child?” It is kind Aunt Belle.
“Aunt Belle. Aunt Belle, I don’t want to earn my living like that. I want to earn it like—like a man. I want to—well, it’s hard to explain—to go to an office like a man—and have my pay every week, like a man—and have a chance to get on like men, like a man. I want to go into the City if I possibly could, or start in some way like going into the City. I know it sounds awful—telling it to you—but girls are doing it, a few. They’re just secretaries and clerks, of course. They’re just nothing, of course. But, oh, it’s something, and I do want it so. To have office hours and a—a desk—and a—an employer and be—be like men. I don’t mean, I don’t mean a bit, imitate men like all that talk there is now about imitating men. I hate women in stiff collars and shirts and ties and mannishness like that; and indeed I hate—I dislike men—I can’t stand them, not in that way, if you understand what I mean—”
“.Rosalie!” (Laetitia.)
“Oh, Laetitia, oh, Aunt Belle, I’m only saying that to show I don’t mean I want to be—. It is so fearfully difficult to explain, this. But Aunt, you do see what I am trying to mean. It’s just a man’s work that I mean because I’d love it and because I don’t see why—. And it’s just that particular kind of work—in the City. Because I believe, I do believe, I would be sharp and good at that work. Figures and things. I love that. I’m quick at that, very quick. And I’ve read heaps about it—about business I mean—about—”
Uncle Pyke Pounce. Uncle Pyke Pounce, holding his breath because he is holding his exasperation as one holds one’s breath in performance of a delicate task. Uncle Pyke Pounce crimson, purply blotched, infuriated, kept from his food, blowing up at last at the parlour-maid: “Bring in the next course! Bring in the next course! Watyer staring at? Watyer waiting for? Watyer listening to? Rubbish. Pack of rubbish.”
The parlour-maid flies out on the gust of the explosion. Rosalie finishes her sentence while the gust inflates again.
“Read heaps about it—about business—about trade and finance and that. It fascinates me.”