"Sickening job, ain't it, writing for the stage unless you've got some sort of pull?"
"This is my first effort," he explained.
"Well, it's none of my business," she said gloomily. "All I want is the typing of it, only you should see some of the truck I've had! I've hated to send in the bill. Waste of good time and paper! I don't suppose yours is like that, but there ain't much written that's any good, anyway."
"You're a hopeful young person, aren't you?" he remarked, taking a cigarette from the mantelpiece and lighting it. "Have one?"
"No, thank you!" she replied, rising briskly to her feet. "I'm not that sort that sits about and smokes cigarettes with strange young men. If you'll let me know when that work's going to be ready, I'll send the janitor up for it."
He smiled deprecatingly.
"You're not afraid of me, by any chance, are you?" he asked.
Her eyes glowed with contempt as she looked him up and down.
"Afraid of you, sir!" she repeated. "I should say not! I've met all sorts of men and I know something about them."
"Then sit down again, please," he begged.