Their University careers had been creditable, if not particularly conspicuous.  Johnny had been a fluent speaker at the Union, Jane at the women’s intercollegiate Debating Society, and also in the Somerville parliament, where she had been the leader of the Labour Party.  Johnny had for a time edited the Isis, Jane the Fritillary.  Johnny had done respectably in Schools, Jane rather better.  For Jane had always been just a shade the cleverer; not enough to spoil competition, but enough to give Johnny rather harder work to achieve the same results.  They had probably both got firsts, but Jane’s would be a safe thing, and Johnny would be likely to have a longish viva.

Anyhow, here they were, just returned to Potter’s Bar, Herts (where Mr. Percy Potter, liking the name of the village, had lately built a lordly mansion).  Excellent friends they were, but as jealous as two little dogs, each for ever on the look-out to see that the other got no undue advantage.  Both saw every reason why they should make a success of life.  But Jane knew that, though she might be one up on Johnny as regards Oxford, owing to slightly superior brain power, he was one up on her as regards Life, owing to that awful business sex.  Women were handicapped; they had to fight much harder to achieve equal results.  People didn’t give them jobs in the same way.  Young men possessed the earth; young women had to wrest what they wanted out of it piecemeal.  Johnny might end a cabinet minister, a notorious journalist, a Labour leader, anything....  Women’s jobs were, as a rule, so dowdy and unimportant.  Jane was bored to death with this sex business; it wasn’t fair.  But Jane was determined to live it down.  She wouldn’t be put off with second-rate jobs; she wouldn’t be dowdy and unimportant, like her mother and the other fools; she would have the best that was going.

3

The family dined.  At one end of the table was Mr. Potter; a small, bird-like person, of no presence; you had not thought he was so great a man as Potter of the Potter Press.  For it was a great press; though not so great as the Northcliffe Press, for it did not produce anything so good as the Times or so bad as the Weekly Dispatch; it was more of a piece.

Both commonplace and common was Mr. Percy Potter (according to some standards), but clever, with immense patience, a saving sense of humour, and that imaginative vision without which no newspaper owner, financier, general, politician, poet, or criminal can be great.  He was, in fact, greater than the twins would ever be, because he was not at odds with his material:  he found such stuff as his dreams were made of ready to his hand, in the great heart of the public—­the last place where the twins would have thought of looking.