ination refused to picture any end to this state of things.
There would just be more speeches and more strikes, and still more
speeches, going on for ever and ever at home; while foreign affairs and
the British Empire went on for ever and ever too, with no connection
between the two lines of sequence, and no likeness, except that both
somehow went on and on.

That was Anthony's view of England's parliament and of her imperial
policy; and it was Mrs. Anthony's. Politics, Anthony said, had become
static; and he assured Frances that there was no likelihood that they
would ever become dynamic again--ever.

Anthony's view of politics was Mrs. Anthony's view of life.

Nothing ever really happened. Things did not change; they endured; they
went on. At least everything that really mattered endured and went on.
So that everything that really mattered could--if you were given to
looking forward--be foreseen. A strike--a really bad one--might
conceivably affect Anthony's business, for a time; but not all the
strikes in the world, not all the silly speeches, not all the meddling
and muddling of politicians could ever touch one of those
enduring things.

Frances believed in permanence because, in secret, she abhorred the
thought of change. And she abhorred the thought of change because, at
thirty-three, she had got all the things she wanted. But only for the
last ten years out of the thirty-three. Before that (before she was Mrs.
Anthony), wanting things, letting it be known that you wanted them, had
meant not getting them. So that it was incredible how she had contrived
to get them all. She had not yet left off being surprised at her own
happiness. It was not like things you take for granted and are not aware
of. Frances was profoundly aware of it. Her happiness was a solid,
tangible thing. She knew where it resided, and what it was made of, and
what terms she held it on. It depended on her; on her truth, her love,
her loyalty; it was of the nature of a trust. But there was no illusion
about it. It was the reality.

She denied that she was arrogant, for she had not taken one of them for
granted, not even Dorothy; though a little arrogance might have been
excusable in a woman who had borne three sons and only one daughter
before she was thirty-two. Whereas Grannie's achievement had been four
daughters, four superfluous women, of whom Anthony had married one and
supported three.

To be sure there was Maurice. But he was worse