in our cities who work remarkably hard. Then
she resolutely shook her head.

"I must wait for Agatha," she said, and crossing the room towards the
typewriter table stopped to glance at a little framed photograph that
stood upon the mantel. It was a portrait of Gregory Hawtrey taken some
years ago, and she apostrophied it with quiet scorn.

"Now you're wanted you're naturally away out yonder," she said.
"You're like the rest of them--despicable!"

This seemed to relieve her feelings, and she sat down before the
machine, which clicked and rattled for several minutes under her stubby
fingers. Then the clicking ceased with sudden abruptness, and she
prodded the mechanism viciously with a hairpin. As this appeared
unavailing she used her forefinger, and when at length the carriage
slid along the rod with a clash there was a smear of grimy oil upon her
cheek and her somewhat tilted nose. The machine, however, gave no
further trouble, and she endeavoured to make up some, at least, of the
time she had spent at the concert. It was necessary that it should be
made up, but she was also conscious that she was putting off an evil
moment.

At length the door opened, and Agatha Ismay, wrapped in a long cloak,
came in. She permitted Winifred to take it from her, and then sank
down into a chair. There was a strained look in her eyes, and her face
was very weary.

[Illustration: "At length the door opened, and Agatha Ismay, wrapped in
a long cloak, came in."]

"You're working late again?" she said.

Winifred nodded. "It's the men who loaf, my dear," she said. "When
you undertake the transcription of an author's scrawl at ninepence the
thousand words you have to work unusually hard, especially when, as it
is in this case, the thing's practically unreadable. Besides, the
woman in it makes me lose my temper. If I'd had a man of the kind
described to deal with I'd have thrashed him."

She was throwing words about, partly to conceal her anxiety, and partly
with the charitable purpose of giving her companion time to approach
the subject that must be mentioned as she thought best; but she rather
over-did it, and Agatha looked at her sharply.

"Winny," she said, "you know. You've been there."

Winifred turned towards her quietly, for she could face a crisis.

"Yes," she said, "I have, but you're not going to talk about it until
you have had supper. Don't move until I make the coffee."

She was genuinely hungry, but w