“How fortunate, perhaps. I must tell you about this lady—Miss Barfoot. She has private means—not large, but sufficient to allow of her combining benevolence with business. She makes it her object to train young girls for work in offices, teaching them the things that I learnt in Bristol, and typewriting as well. Some pay for their lessons, and some get them for nothing. Our workrooms are in Great Portland Street, over a picture-cleaner’s shop. One or two girls have evening lessons, but our pupils for the most part are able to come in the day. Miss Barfoot hasn’t much interest in the lower classes; she wishes to be of use to the daughters of educated people. And she is of use. She is doing admirable work.”
“Oh, I am sure she must be! What a wonderful person!”
“It occurs to me that she might help Monica.”
“Oh, do you think she would?” exclaimed Virginia, with eager attention. “How grateful we should be!”
“Where is Monica employed?”
“At a draper’s in Walworth Road. She is worked to death. Every week I see a difference in her, poor child. We hoped to persuade her to go back to the shop at Weston; but if this you speak of were possible—how much better! We have never reconciled ourselves to her being in that position—never.”
“I see no harm in the position itself,” replied Miss Nunn in her rather blunt tone, “but I see a great deal in those outrageous hours. She won’t easily do better in London, without special qualifications; and probably she is reluctant to go back to the country.”
“Yes, she is; very reluctant.”
“I understand it,” said the other, with a nod. “Will you ask her to come and see me?”
A servant entered with tea. Miss Nunn caught the expression in her visitor’s eyes, and said cheerfully—