Standing upon the footstool to get out, back, away from the wrong turning into the sense of essential expression. The return into the room of the sound of the sea, empty and harsh, in a void.
“That’s admirable. You could carry off any number of inches, Miriam. You only want the helmet and the trident. You’re Britannia, you know. The British Constitution. You’re infinitely more British than I am.”
“Foreigners always tell me I am the only English person who understands them.”
“Flattery. You’ve no idea how British you are. A mass of British prejudice and intelligent obstinacy. I shall put you in a book.”
“Then how can you want me to be a socialist. I am a Tory and an anarchist by turns.”
“You’re certainly an anarchist. You’re an individualist you know, that’s what’s wrong with you.”
“And what’s wrong with you?”
“And now you shall experiment in being a socialist.”
“Tories are the best socialists.”
“You shall be a Tory socialist. My dear Miriam, there will be socialists in the House of Lords.”