“But you don’t care for the thought?”
“I wish now they had brought me up to something different. Alice and Virginia were afraid of having me trained for a school; you remember that one of our sisters who went through it died of overwork. And I’m not clever, Miss Nunn. I never did much at school.”
Rhoda regarded her, smiling gently.
“You have no inclination to study now?”
“I’m afraid not,” replied the other, looking away. “Certainly I should like to be better educated, but I don’t think I could study seriously, to earn my living by it. The time for that has gone by.”
“Perhaps so. But there are things you might manage. No doubt your sister told you how I get my living. There’s a good deal of employment for women who learn to use a typewriter. Did you ever have piano lessons?”
“No.”
“No more did I, and I was sorry for it when I went to typewriting. The fingers have to be light and supple and quick. Come with me, and I’ll show you one of the machines.”
They went to a room downstairs—a bare little room by the library. Here were two Remingtons, and Rhoda patiently explained their use.
“One must practise until one can do fifty words a minute at least. I know one or two people who have reached almost twice that speed. It takes a good six months’ work to learn for any profitable use. Miss Barfoot takes pupils.”