I looked at her kindly again. Perhaps a little kindlier than last time. You see, we anti-feminists don’t dislike women in the least; we prize, cherish, and pity them. We are compassionate. Goodness, to think of the poor wretches having to waddle through life with all those absurd fatty appendages sticking out of them; to have all the useful part of their lives made miserable by the triple plague of constipation, menstruation and parturition; worst of all, to have to cope with these handicaps with only a kind of fuzzy half-brain – a pretty head randomly filled, like a tiddly-winks cup, with brightly-coloured scraps of rubbish – why, it wrings the very heart with pity. You know how your dog sometimes gazes anguishedly at you, its almost human eyes yearning to understand, longing to communicate? You remember how often you have felt that it was on the very brink of breaking through the barrier and joining you? I think that’s why you and I are so kind to women, bless ’em. (Moreover, you scarcely ever see them chasing cats or fouling the footpaths.)

‘Yes,’ I answered her.

Just as we were leaving, Sonia rushed out to the door, still playing the mobled queen.

‘Charlie,’ she cried, ‘will someone look after your dear little canary while you’re away?’

‘Probably,’ I said, vaguely.

‘What my old nanny used to say,’ grumbled George, ‘was that people shouldn’t have pets if they weren’t prepared to look after them properly.’

‘Just what I always say about wives,’ I answered brightly. Well, perhaps it wasn’t in the best of taste. I never signed any promises about good taste, I’d as soon join the Temperance League.

Johanna went to bed without saying good night. Jock was out, probably hitting people, he never tires of it. I didn’t worry about that, he’s careful now: people he quarrels with usually walk away – carrying their teeth in their hat. I made some telephone calls to travel-agents and old Oxford tutors then went sulkily to bed, taking with me a volume of Beatrix Potter to comfort my sad heart; it was The Tale of Mrs Tiggywinkle, it never fails to please.

7

God is buried and dead to us,

Even the spirit of earth,

Freedom; so have they said to us,

Some with mocking and mirth,

Some with heartbreak and tears;

And a God without eyes, without ears,

Who shall sang of him, dead in the birth?

To Walt Whitman in America