“At the same time how do you account for this─I made enquiries among the artists. Now, no woman has ever been an artist, has she, Poll?”
“Jane-Austen-Charlotte-Brontë-George-Eliot,” cried Poll, like a man crying muffins in a back street.
“Damn the woman!” someone exclaimed. “What a bore she is!’
“Since Sappho there has been no female of first rate———” Eleanor began, quoting from a weekly newspaper.
“It’s now well known that Sappho was the somewhat lewd invention of Professor Hobkin,” Ruth interrupted.
“Anyhow, there is no reason to suppose that any woman ever has been able to write or ever will be able to write,” Eleanor continued. “And yet, whenever I go among authors they never cease to talk to me about their books. Masterly! I say, or Shakespeare himself! (for one must say something) and I assure you, they believe me.”
