“In the arts,” he was saying, “woman does not, cannot, shine. She only exists—on sufferance. A woman’s province——”
Myre had strolled towards the voice:
“I am flattered to find,” said he, “that Mr. Fosse has been reading me. He is right. A woman’s province is to be beautiful; and if she write at all she may write of the nursery—of the domesticities. A woman has not the experiences of life—she writes only from intuition. She cannot experience the emotions of a man—cannot describe all shades of life—is too careful of her skirts to have been on the heights and in the gutters——”
Lovegood coughed:
“Never,” said he, with big deliberate voice—“never shall I again approach a municipal sewer without an ecstatic thrill.”
Quogge Myre took no notice of the shaft:
“A woman,” said he, “cannot be in the thrash and fume of life. She only peeps out fearfully over the window-blind at the doings of the world. She has not physical strength——”
Somebody coughed:
“Tra-la-lee!” said he—“opera—bouffe—bouffe—bouffe.”
Myre went suddenly dumb....