Wood. It’s an engagement ring. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. One called her very distinctly “My dear!” Two secretarial posts did indeed seem to offer themselves in which, at least, there was no specific exclusion of womanhood; one was under a Radical Member of Parliament, and the other under a Harley Street doctor, and both men declined her proffered services with the utmost civility and admiration and terror. Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. .
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