Ann Veronica sat with her chin on her hand, red-lit and saying little, and Miss Miniver discoursed.  As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension.  It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—­a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably.  In remote times and countries its evil tendencies had expressed themselves in the form of tyrannies, massacres, wars, and what not; but just at present in England they shaped as commercialism and competition, silk hats, suburban morals, the sweating system, and the subjection of women.  So far the thing was acceptable enough.  But over against the world Miss Miniver assembled a small but energetic minority, the Children of Light—­people she described as “being in the van,” or “altogether in the van,” about whom Ann Veronica’s mind was disposed to be more sceptical.

Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—­the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really.  She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it.  Hitherto in the world’s history there had been precursors of this Progress at great intervals, voices that had spoken and ceased, but now it was all coming on together in a rush.  She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato.  Pioneers all of them.  Such names shone brightly in the darkness, with black spaces of unilluminated emptiness about them, as stars shine in the night; but now—­now it was different; now it was dawn—­the real dawn.

“The women are taking it up,” said Miss Miniver; “the women and the common people, all pressing forward, all roused.”

Ann Veronica listened with her eyes on the fire.

“Everybody is taking it up,” said Miss Miniver.  “You had to come in.  You couldn’t help it.  Something drew you.  Something draws everybody.  From suburbs, from country towns—­everywhere.  I see all the Movements.  As far as I can, I belong to them all.  I keep my finger on the pulse of things.”

Ann Veronica said nothing.

“The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame.

“I came to London,” said Ann Veronica, “rather because of my own difficulty.  I don’t know that I understand altogether.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Miss Miniver, gesticulating triumphantly with her thin hand and thinner wrist, and patting Ann Veronica’s knee.  “Of course you don’t.  That’s the wonder of it.  But you will, you will.  You must let me take you to things—­to meetings and things, to conferences and talks.  Then you will begin to see.  You will begin to see it all opening out.  I am up to the ears in it all—­every moment I can spare.  I throw up work—­everything!  I just teach in one school, one good school, three days a week.  All the rest—­Movements!  I can live now on fourpence a day.  Think how free that leaves me to follow things up!  I must take you everywhere.  I must take you to the Suffrage people, and the Tolstoyans, and the Fabians.”