Meekly, Muriel sat down and waited. She had to wait for a long time. Delia folded a derelict slice of brown bread and butter and began to cut it into neat, rectangular disks upon her plate. When she did speak, her question was quite unexpected.
"Have you a great deal of patience, Muriel?"
"Patience? Me? I—I haven't much idea."
"No—no. N—o." Delia's fingers tapped at the round brass tea-tray. "No, you wouldn't know. Really it seems incredible that—however—you're keen on accounts and things, aren't you?"
"Yes—I—suppose I am. I'm not much——"
"Good at them, though? Of course not. Nobody is without a proper training. However, if I remember the Nursing Association you have quite a genius for method. Do you like house-keeping?"
"That depends. At home it's such a routine now. I often used to think it would be lovely to have a little house all of one's own—only again the necessity of sharing it with a husband was an obstacle."
"I see."
"But I must really go. You'll be getting tired of talking about me——"
"Oh, no, I shan't. For Heaven's sake sit down and do be a bit more interested in yourself. You'll have to hear a lot of home-truths before I've finished with you. By the way, I'm ill."