“She's mighty clever, and she's nice enough, too, though the kind of journalism that women do isn't the most dignified. And she's one of the best girls I know, with lots of sense.”
“It must be very interesting,” said Miss Triscoe, with little interest in the way she said it. “I suppose you're quite a little community by yourselves.”
“On the paper?”
“Yes.”
“Well, some of us know one another, in the office, but most of us don't. There's quite a regiment of people on a big paper. If you'd like to come out,” Burnamy ventured, “perhaps you could get the Woman's Page to do.”
“What's that?”
“Oh, fashion; and personal gossip about society leaders; and recipes for dishes and diseases; and correspondence on points of etiquette.”
He expected her to shudder at the notion, but she merely asked, “Do women write it?”
He laughed reminiscently. “Well, not always. We had one man who used to do it beautifully—when he was sober. The department hasn't had any permanent head since.”
He was sorry he had said this, but it did not seem to shock her, and no doubt she had not taken it in fully. She abruptly left the subject. “Do you know what time we really get in to-morrow?”