she said. "I thought it had
lost its power to hurt; but I was mistaken. I have liked you, perhaps
that is the reason, and I have wanted to save you from making the same
mistake as myself. For before you plunge out of monotony you must see
that there is nothing in your heart that can be hurt, as these women
have to be hurt every hour of their lives."

Joan could find nothing to say; the other girl's confidence had been so
overpowering, it left her tongue-tied and stupid. Rose came back after a
little silence and sat down opposite her again.

"I am sorry," she said, "I have talked you into a mood of black
depression; never mind, perhaps you will have learnt something from it
none the less. And meanwhile, things are going to be better for you; it
is no loss having to leave Shamrock House, otherwise you might grow into
the house as I have. You will have to see about getting a room
to-morrow, and then if you can meet me in the afternoon, I will take you
and introduce you to your job. It is quite a nice one, I hope you will
like it."

Joan stood up. "I don't know what to say," she began; "you--oh, if only
we could wipe out the past," she flamed into sudden rebellion, "and
start afresh."

Rose laughed. "I don't know about that," she said--the inevitable
cigarette was in her mouth again--"_I_ for one would be very unwilling
to lose a wisdom which has been so dearly bought."

CHAPTER XV

"No one has any more right to go about unhappy than he has to go
about ill bred."

R. L. STEVENSON.

Joan was not to start her new work till the following Monday. She was to
be typist--her first real post filled her with some degree of
self-conscious pride--to the Editor of the _Evening Herald_. Rose had
herself worked on the paper some years ago and was a friend of the
Editor's.

"I want you to give a girl I know a chance, Mr. Strangman," she had
pleaded; "she is clever and well-educated, but she needs experience.
Take her, there is a good man, while your slack time is on, and she will
be game for anything when you get busy again."

Mr. Strangman twisted long nervous fingers into strange positions.

"I don't know about this girl," he said; "we are never slack at the
office."

It was a pet fallacy of his that he was the hardest-worked man in
London. Rose smiled. "But her typing is quite good," she argued, "and
you are such an easy dictator, I am sure she will get on al