"To-morrow?"
He laughed. "Good. I thought you meant in the autumn. ... To-morrow by all means, if you will. As a matter of fact we're frightfully short-handed in the office just now. Our typist has crocked, and we haven't another yet, so people have to type their own letters."
"I can do the typing," said Gerda, composedly. "I can type quite well."
"Oh, but that'll be dull for you. That's not what you want, is it? Though, if you want to learn about the work, it's not a bad way ... you get it all passing through your hands.... Would you really take on that job for a bit?"
Gerda nodded.
They were rapid and decided people; they did not beat about the bush. If they wanted to do a thing and there seemed no reason why not, they did it.
"That's first-class," said Barry. "Give it a trial, anyhow.... Of course you'll be on trial too; we may find it doesn't work. If so, there are plenty of other jobs to be done in the office. But that's what we most want at the moment."
Barry had a way of assuming that people would want, naturally, to do the thing that most needed doing.
Gerda's soul sang and whistled down the whistling wind. It wasn't over, then: it was only beginning. The W.E.A. was splendid; work was splendid; Barry Briscoe was splendid; life was splendid. She was sorry for Kay at Cambridge, Kay who was just off on a reading party, not helping in the world's work but merely getting education. Education was inspiring in connection with Democracy, but when applied to oneself it was dull.
The rain was lessening. It fell on their heads more lightly; the wind was like soft wet kisses on their backs, as they tramped through Merrow, and up the lane to Windover.