“He goes there too, I suppose?”
“Oh yes! He thought,”—she laughed—“that I might feel lost among strangers. One has to get over that sort of thing when one takes up a profession. But he meant it very well, and perhaps if he is there, they will be less shy of me. That’s what generally happens, because people can’t forget their old tradition that a woman mustn’t be professional. With a man it’s taken as a matter of course.”
“And a man takes it as a matter of course,” put in Helen. She was tired of her companion’s girlish egotism, and administered her thrust sharply. “But she won’t see,” she reflected.
Claudia did see, and coloured.
“I dare say I am tiresome,” she said frankly. “At the college they declared that no one rode their hobbies to death as I did. Only,”—she drew a deep breath—“these are wonderful times, aren’t they? And how can one take one’s part in the movement without enthusiasm?”
“And pray, where are you moving?” asked Miss Arbuthnot. Then she changed her tone. “Was there ever such a heavenly day? I’m glad you’ve spared the grass ride. There’s nothing like it at Huntingdon, whatever Captain Fenwick may say. When do you go?”
“On Wednesday.”
“Does he take you?”
“I suppose we shall bicycle there together. I shan’t object, because he is a very clever rider, and can show one all sorts of useful dodges.”
“Oh, he is very clever!” agreed Miss Arbuthnot. She added quickly, with a touch of scorn—“and insatiable.”