cheaper anywhere else--or better."

There was nothing particularly ingratiating about Miss Martha Grimes,
but, with the exception of a coloured waiter, she happened to be the
first human being with whom Philip had exchanged a word for several days.
He felt disinclined to hurry her away.

"Come in," he invited, holding the door open. "So you do typing, eh? What
sort of a machine do you use?"

"Remington," she answered. "It's a bit knocked about--a few of the
letters, I mean--but I've got some violet ink and I can make a manuscript
look all right. Half a dollar a thousand words, and a quarter for carbon
copies. Of course, if you'd got a lot of stuff," she went on, her eyes
lighting hopefully upon the little collection of manuscript upon his
table, "I might quote you a trifle less."

He picked up some of his sheets and glanced at them.

"Sooner or later," he admitted, "I shall have to have this typed. It
isn't quite ready yet, though."

He was struck by the curious little light of anticipation which somehow
changed her face, and which passed away at his last words. Under pretence
of gathering together some of those loose pages, he examined her more
closely and realised that he had done her at first scant justice. She was
very thin, and the expression of her face was spoilt by the discontented
curve of her lips. The shape of her head, however, was good. Her dark
hair, notwithstanding its temporary disarrangement, was of beautiful
quality, and her eyes, though dull and spiritless-looking, were large and
full of subtle promise. He replaced the sheets of manuscript.

"Sit down for a moment," he begged.

"I'd rather stand," she replied.

"Just as you please," he assented, smiling. "I was just wondering what to
do about this stuff."

She hesitated for a moment, then a little sulkily she seated herself.

"I suppose you think I'm a pretty forward young person to come up here
and beg for work. I don't care if you do," she went on, swinging her foot
back and forth. "One has to live."

"I am very pleased that you came," he assured her. "It will be a great
convenience to me to have my typing done on the premises, and although I
am afraid there won't be much of it, you shall certainly do what there
is."

"Story writer?" she enquired.

"I am only a beginner," he told her. "This work I am going to give you is
a play."

She looked at him with a shade of commiseration in her face.

"Sickening job, ain't it, writing for