observed the milkman. “How was the grub this trip?” With some surprise, Louisa realized that at Glenarvon she’d hardly noticed the food at all. Only one meal stayed in her memory: a picnic Sunday lunch … “I suppose I ate,” said Louisa. “But nothing tasty?” sympathized the milkman. “Just plain family fare,” said Louisa. “Well, why not treat yourself to a spot of cream?” suggested the milkman. “Look,” said Louisa, “I may be what suffragettes chained themselves to railings for, I may be the femme sole with all her rights—” “I remember you telling me,” said the milkman. “—but all I’ve got out of it is that I can’t afford cream. So lay off the high-pressure salesmanship.” “I’m not on commission,” said the milkman, hurt. “That go for yoghurt too?” She hesitated. “Keep it on till the dairy cuts up rough,” said Louisa. “At any rate I’ve got a profession.” 2 She still had a profession. It was a defeat, in a way, to subside upon it; Louisa was still intellectually convinced, on behalf of all femmes soles, as to the desirability of either rich or steady husbands—now with a family if possible thrown in.
