CHAPTER V
Simcox gone, Sturgiss arrives. “Come with us!” “No!” Coy Rosalie bluffs. “Head clerk—manager—partner—sole owner—Chairman of Bank of England—Chancellor of Exchequer—anything. Only come with us.”
“Very well, then—manager to start with.”
Her life now, her stage. A chair! A desk—mahogany—huge! Ink-well! Penholders! Paper! Typewriter! Waste-basket! Paste pot! Scissors! Everything and more besides—including glass partitions—think of that! Lombard Street! Trafalgar Square! Pall Mall! Piccadilly! Bond Street! Regent Street! Hyde Park! Kensington Gardens and points west and north!
That’s her stage. Can you beat it?
The War comes. It had her permission. It goes on. She let it. It stops. She was tired of it.
And yet ... one must write one’s story in one’s own way, in spite of one’s habit of prematurely spilling one’s beans. One must tell it all over in detail—but not here—not here—thank God! Not here!