“A woman’s business,” asserted Clodd, “is to be taken care of.”
“Some women, perhaps,” admitted Peter; “but Tommy, you know very well, is not going to be the ordinary type of woman. She has brains; she will make her way in the world.”
“It doesn’t depend upon brains,” said Clodd. “She hasn’t got the elbows.”
“The elbows?”
“They are not sharp enough. The last ’bus home on a wet night tells you whether a woman is capable of pushing her own way in the world. Tommy’s the sort to get left on the kerb.”
“She’s the sort,” retorted Peter, “to make a name for herself and to be able to afford a cab. Don’t you bully me!” Peter sniffed self-assertiveness from between his thumb and finger.
“Yes, I shall,” Clodd told him, “on this particular point. The poor girl’s got no mother.”
Fortunately for the general harmony the door opened at the moment to admit the subject of discussion.
“Got that Daisy Blossom advertisement out of old Blatchley,” announced Tommy, waving triumphantly a piece of paper over her head.
“No!” exclaimed Peter. “How did you manage it?”