“I mean,” he began—“that is to say—I mean that I don't understand why ladies are always saying that. I am sure they can do what they like, as it is.”
“Do you mean that everything is open to them now?” she asked, disentangling a cluster of the berries from those in her lap, and beginning a fresh bunch.
“Yes,” said Mavering. “Something like that—yes. They can do anything they like. Lots of them do.”
“Oh yes, I know,” said the girl. “But people don't like them to.”
“Why, what would you like to be?” he asked.
She did not answer, but sorted over the clusters in her lap. “We've got enough now, haven't we?” she said.
“Oh, not half,” he said. “But if you're tired you must let me make up some of the bunches.”
“No, no! I want to do them all myself,” she said, gesturing his offered hands away, with a little nether appeal in her laughing refusal.
“So as to feel that you've been of some use in the world?” he said, dropping contentedly on the ground near her, and watching her industry.
“Do you think that would be very wrong?” she asked. “What made that friend of yours—Mr. Boardman—go into journalism?”