She told the porter to take it to the booking-office, and it was only after a disconcerting moment or so that she found she ought to have directed him to go to the cloak-room. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. “Okay, Mom. I have just come from him. White said. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture.
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