Clare.  Lots of the girls are really nice.  But somehow they don’t want me, can’t help thinking I’ve got airs or something; and in here [She touches her breast] I don’t want them!

Malise.  I know.

Clare.  Mrs. Fullarton and I used to belong to a society for helping reduced gentlewomen to get work.  I know now what they want:  enough money not to work—­that’s all! [Suddenly looking up at him] Don’t think me worse than I am-please!  It’s working under people; it’s having to do it, being driven.  I have tried, I’ve not been altogether a coward, really!  But every morning getting there the same time; every day the same stale “dinner,” as they call it; every evening the same “Good evening, Miss Clare,” “Good evening, Miss Simpson,” “Good evening, Miss Hart,” “Good evening, Miss Clare.”  And the same walk home, or the same ’bus; and the same men that you mustn’t look at, for fear they’ll follow you. [She rises] Oh! and the feeling-always, always—­that there’s no sun, or life, or hope, or anything.  It was just like being ill, the way I’ve wanted to ride and dance and get out into the country. [Her excitement dies away into the old clipped composure, and she sits down again] Don’t think too badly of me—­it really is pretty ghastly!

Malise. [Gruffly] H’m!  Why a shop?

Clare.  References.  I didn’t want to tell more lies than I could help; a married woman on strike can’t tell the truth, you know.  And I can’t typewrite or do shorthand yet.  And chorus—­I thought—­you wouldn’t like.

Malise.  I?  What have I——? [He checks himself ] Have men been brutes?

Clare. [Stealing a look at him] One followed me a lot.  He caught hold of my arm one evening.  I just took this out [She draws out her hatpin and holds it like a dagger, her lip drawn back as the lips of a dog going to bite] and said:  “Will you leave me alone, please?” And he did.  It was rather nice.  And there was one quite decent little man in the shop—­I was sorry for him—­such a humble little man!

Malise.  Poor devil—­it’s hard not to wish for the moon.

     At the tone of his voice Clare looks up at him; his face is
     turned away.

Clare. [Softly] How have you been?  Working very hard?

Malise.  As hard as God will let me.

Clare. [Stealing another look] Have you any typewriting I could do?  I could learn, and I’ve still got a brooch I could sell.  Which is the best kind?

Malise.  I had a catalogue of them somewhere.

He goes into the inner room.  The moment he is gone, Clare stands up, her hands pressed to her cheeks as if she felt them flaming.  Then, with hands clasped, she stands waiting.  He comes back with the old portfolio.

Malise.  Can you typewrite where you are?