"If it isn't an impertinent question," said Colin, "how long have you been in Chelsea?"
"About eighteen months," she answered, handing him his cup. "I had always lived in the country before then, but there were reasons why I had to start work of some sort, and typing was the only useful thing I happened to know. Somebody told me that Chelsea was full of authors, so I came here, and here I've been ever since."
Colin helped himself to a sugared biscuit. "I hope you charge them a lot," he said, "and I hope they pay regularly."
"It might be worse," she replied. "As it happens, I've got enough money of my own to pay the rent of the studio, and what I make out of my typing just keeps me going in clothes and food and cigarettes." She paused to refill the teapot. "It's just the feeling that I'm wasting my time so," she continued, "that annoys me. If I were working at something really useful I should be quite happy, but this stuff"—she made a distasteful gesture toward the table—"well, I can't think how anybody can possibly write it, let alone read it."
Colin suddenly slapped his leg with a bang which made the china rattle.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Why, of course, you're the very girl!"
He laid down his cup and gazed at her in a kind of triumphant satisfaction.
Nancy returned his inspection with a perplexed smile. "I daresay I am," she admitted. "It's rather hard to tell at present, isn't it?"
Colin laughed. "I'm not mad," he explained. "If you meant what you said just now, if you're really looking out for something that's worth doing, I can put you on to a job straight away."
There was a moment's silence.