“And thinking about getting ready for church.”
“The men smoke.”
“Stealthily and sleepily in armchairs like cats—ever seen a cat smoke?—like cats—with the wife or somebody they are tired of talking to on the doormat—as it were—tentatively, I speak tentatively ... in a dead-alley—Dedale—Dedalus—coming into the room any minute in Sunday clothes——”
“To stand on the hearthrug.”
“No hanging about the room. If there’s any hearthrug standing it’s the men who do it, smoking blissfully alone, and trying to look weary and wise and important if anyone comes in.”
“Like Cabinet ministers?”
“Yes; when they are really—er.”
“Cabinets.”
“Footstools; office stools; you never saw a sheltered woman venture on to the hearthrug except for a second if she’s short-sighted to look at the clock.” Miriam sprang to the hearthrug and waved her cigarette. “Con-fu-sion to the sheltered life!” The vast open of London swung, welcoming, before her eyes.
“Hoch! Hoch!”