The typist, Miss Proserpine Garnett, is a brisk little woman of
about 30, of the lower middle class, neatly but cheaply dressed
in a black merino skirt and a blouse, rather pert and quick of
speech, and not very civil in her manner, but sensitive and
affectionate. She is clattering away busily at her machine whilst
Morell opens the last of his morning's letters. He realizes its
contents with a comic groan of despair.

PROSERPINE. Another lecture?

MORELL. Yes. The Hoxton Freedom Group want me to address them on
Sunday morning (great emphasis on "Sunday," this being the
unreasonable part of the business). What are they?

PROSERPINE. Communist Anarchists, I think.

MORELL. Just like Anarchists not to know that they can't have a
parson on Sunday! Tell them to come to church if they want to
hear me: it will do them good. Say I can only come on Mondays and
Thursdays. Have you the diary there?

PROSERPINE (taking up the diary). Yes.

MORELL. Have I any lecture on for next Monday?

PROSERPINE (referring to diary). Tower Hamlets Radical Club.

MORELL. Well, Thursday then?