“You Mr. Merton Ware?”

He admitted the fact briefly.  His visitor was a young woman dressed in a rather shabby black indoor dress, over which she wore an apron.  She was without either hat or gloves.  Her fingers were stained with purple copying ink, and her dark hair was untidily arranged.

“I live two stories down below,” she announced, handing him a little card.  “Miss Martha Grimes—­that’s my name—­typewriter and stenographer, you see.  The waiter who brings our meals told me he thought you were some way literary, so I just stepped up to show you my prospectus.  If you’ve any typewriting you want doing, I’m on the spot, and I don’t know as you’d get it done much 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.”