It was so long since she had read anything about Akhnaton's Aton-worship that she could not have composed the sentences in exactly the manner of the Pharaoh's writing if she had set herself down in a retired place and tried very hard to remember his style and his language. Here, in this modern and vulgar tea-room, filled with men and youths in khaki and shop-girls in cheap and showy finery, she had suddenly and unconsciously written a thing which had absolutely nothing to do with her thoughts or surroundings.
The girl who brought her coffee and was standing waiting to make out her bill, looked at her sympathically and asked her if she felt ill.
At the sound of her voice, Margaret dragged her thoughts back to the fact that she had been waiting for a cup of coffee.
"No," she said, jerkily. "I am not ill, only a little tired, thank you."
"You're working hard, I suppose? One coffee, threepence," she jotted down. "Are you in a hospital? I wish I was nursing, instead of doing this."
Margaret looked at her blankly for a moment. She wished that she would not talk to her; she felt afraid of her own answers.
"No, I'm not nursing—I'm a pantry-maid in a private convalescent hospital."
"Well, I never!" the girl said; she was not ignorant of Margaret's good breeding. "Do you like the work?"
"It's very like your work, I suppose. I never stop to think about whether I like it or not. Someone has to do it, and I've been given it—every little helps."
"Isn't that splendid?" the girl said. "And I don't suppose you ever worked before?"