The farther corner of the room was curtained off, as though to serve the purpose of a kitchen or bedroom.
With a wave of her hand Nancy indicated the couch. "Try my patent sofa," she said hospitably. "I'll tidy up while the kettle's boiling."
"Don't do it for me," protested Colin. "I like to see a room a little topsy-turvy. You can't think how refreshing it seems after the suffocating neatness of a hospital."
"I'll put away these horrible manuscripts at all events," returned his hostess. "I've been working at them ever since nine o'clock. The mere sight of them makes me feel ill."
"What are they?" inquired Colin.
She made as near an approach to a grimace as nature would allow.
"Stories. And such bad ones! I think that all the worst authors in the world must live in Chelsea."
"It was rather unkind to type them out," observed Colin. "Somebody will probably have to read them now."
Nancy laughed. "Unfortunately," she said, "it happens to be my profession."
She covered up the typewriter and collected all the papers into an indiscriminate bundle.