MAGGIE. [angrily.] Of course it’s Mr. Tennant. Everybody speaks as if Mr. Tennant was a wicked person going round tempting poor husbands to desert their wives. “It’s all that Mr. Tennant.” “What a blessing when that man goes,” etc., etc., as if he had a bad character. The truth is, that he’s done a jolly good thing. He’s stirred us all up. He’s made us dissatisfied.
LILY. What’s the good of that? Nobody can make things different if they wanted to.
MAGGIE. Don’t talk nonsense. Hasn’t he made things different himself? [Getting a little heroic.] Heaps of fellows in London go on doing the same old thing, in the same old way, only too glad if it’s safe. Look how everybody runs for the Civil Service. Why? Because it’s safe, of course, and because they’ll get a pension. Look at the post office clerks and Somerset House and lawyer’s clerks and bank clerks—
LILY. Bank clerks don’t get pensions—
MAGGIE. I know they don’t, but once in a bank, always in a bank. Is there anything to look forward to—and aren’t they all just—exactly alike? I once went past a lot of offices in the city—I don’t know what sort of offices they were. But the windows had dingy drab blinds, and inside there were rows and rows of clerks, sitting on high stools, bending over great books on desks. And over each there was an electric light under a green shade. There they were scribbling away—and outside there was a most beautiful sunset. I shall never, never, forget those men.
LILY. They don’t have long hours.
MAGGIE [promptly.] Nine to six.
LILY. I always thought it was ten to four.
MAGGIE. Don’t you believe it. That’s what I thought once. You’re thinking of the bank clerks, of course. My dear, the doors close at half-past three or four—but the clerks—why, they never see the daylight.