“No; but think what a joy to have to do with babies, instead of saucepans!” said Mrs. Dalloway, looking with more interest at Helen, a probable mother.

“I’d much rather be a cook than a nurse,” said Helen.  “Nothing would induce me to take charge of children.”

“Mothers always exaggerate,” said Ridley.  “A well-bred child is no responsibility.  I’ve travelled all over Europe with mine.  You just wrap ’em up warm and put ’em in the rack.”

Helen laughed at that.  Mrs. Dalloway exclaimed, looking at Ridley: 

“How like a father!  My husband’s just the same.  And then one talks of the equality of the sexes!”

“Does one?” said Mr. Pepper.

“Oh, some do!” cried Clarissa.  “My husband had to pass an irate lady every afternoon last session who said nothing else, I imagine.”

“She sat outside the house; it was very awkward,” said Dalloway.  “At last I plucked up courage and said to her, ’My good creature, you’re only in the way where you are.  You’re hindering me, and you’re doing no good to yourself.’”

“And then she caught him by the coat, and would have scratched his eyes out—­” Mrs. Dalloway put in.

“Pooh—­that’s been exaggerated,” said Richard.  “No, I pity them, I confess.  The discomfort of sitting on those steps must be awful.”

“Serve them right,” said Willoughby curtly.

“Oh, I’m entirely with you there,” said Dalloway.  “Nobody can condemn the utter folly and futility of such behaviour more than I do; and as for the whole agitation, well! may I be in my grave before a woman has the right to vote in England!  That’s all I say.”

The solemnity of her husband’s assertion made Clarissa grave.

“It’s unthinkable,” she said.  “Don’t tell me you’re a suffragist?” she turned to Ridley.

“I don’t care a fig one way or t’other,” said Ambrose.  “If any creature is so deluded as to think that a vote does him or her any good, let him have it.  He’ll soon learn better.”

“You’re not a politician, I see,” she smiled.

“Goodness, no,” said Ridley.

“I’m afraid your husband won’t approve of me,” said Dalloway aside, to Mrs. Ambrose.  She suddenly recollected that he had been in Parliament.

“Don’t you ever find it rather dull?” she asked, not knowing exactly what to say.

Richard spread his hands before him, as if inscriptions were to be read in the palms of them.

“If you ask me whether I ever find it rather dull,” he said, “I am bound to say yes; on the other hand, if you ask me what career do you consider on the whole, taking the good with the bad, the most enjoyable and enviable, not to speak of its more serious side, of all careers, for a man, I am bound to say, ‘The Politician’s.’”

“The Bar or politics, I agree,” said Willoughby.  “You get more run for your money.”

“All one’s faculties have their play,” said Richard.  “I may be treading on dangerous ground; but what I feel about poets and artists in general is this:  on your own lines, you can’t be beaten—­granted; but off your own lines—­puff—­one has to make allowances.  Now, I shouldn’t like to think that any one had to make allowances for me.”