Wood. 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. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. As he looked around, he beheld an incessant stream of passengers hurrying on below. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. "Zounds!" cried Kneebone, furiously. Go, and let him in. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life.
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