"And now you?" he said.
"Oh, I'm just an office girl. I ought to read The Mirror and The London Mail, but I don't. You know Margaret was doing some work for the Women's Trade Union Movement: that's how she ran into me. I do the typing in the office where she works. We had a rush of work owing to the strikes in Lancashire and my silly health collapsed. She brought me down here. The Berrisfords have been awfully good to me."
"Do you like being in the office?" asked Martin.
"It might be worse, because the letters I have to type are sometimes about something mildly interesting. Just fancy having to do business letters all day. But the society is so short of funds that they work me hard and don't overpay me."
"I always knew that sweating began with the charity-mongers. But I thought your people might be a bit better."
"I suppose I oughtn't to grumble. Shouldn't I pay a small sacrifice to the great cause of Efficiency?"
"I hate Collectivism. I mean the Efficiency type."
"So young, my lord, and a Syndicalist?"
"In parts. Anyhow, they might treat you better." Martin spoke with conviction.
"It's nice of you to be worried, but you needn't. I used to be a school-ma'am and teach English literature to girls with pigtails and secret societies to giggle about. Can't you imagine me? We always did As You Like It or The Tempest. That was just hell. I'd much sooner pinch and scrape in London than live in a school with bells and prayers and the younger members of my own sex. It was quite a good post and everyone said I ought to have stayed on. But I just couldn't. So now I have only myself to blame if I'm unhappy."