“It’s the only thing I ask of life,” Martha said, “the only thing I get.  I want to be left alone, and I will be left alone.  If there is any more work, I will do it.  If there isn’t, I can find some somewhere else.  But visitors I don’t want and won’t have.”

Elizabeth was adorably patient.  She surreptitiously drew towards her a cane chair, a doubtful-looking article of furniture upon which she seated herself slowly and with great care.

“Well,” she continued, with unabated pleasantness, “that is reasonable as far as it goes, only we didn’t quite understand, and it is such a climb up here, isn’t it?  I came to talk about some work, but I must get my breath first.”

“Miss Dalstan thought, perhaps,” Philip intervened diffidently, “that you might consider accepting a post at the theatre.  They always keep two stenographers there, and one of them fills up her time by private work, generally work for some one connected with the theatre.  In your case you could, of course, go on with mine, only when I hadn’t enough for you, and of course I can’t compose as fast as you can type, there would be something else, and the salary would be regular.”

“I should like a regular post,” the girl admitted sullenly.  “So would any one who’s out of work, of course.”

“The salary,” Elizabeth explained, “is twenty-five dollars a week.  The hours are nine to six.  You have quite a comfortable room there, but when you have private work connected with the theatre you can bring it home if you wish.  Mr. Ware tells me that you work very quickly.  You will finish all that you have for him to-day, won’t you?”

“I shall have it finished in half an hour.”

“Then will you be at the New York Theatre to-morrow morning at nine o’clock,” Elizabeth suggested.  “There are some parts to be copied.  It will be very nice indeed if you like the work, and I think you will.”

The girl stood there, irresolute.  It was obvious that she was trying to bring herself to utter some form of thanks.  Then there was a loud knock at the door, which was opened without waiting for any reply.  The janitor stood there with a small key in his hand, which he threw down upon a table.

“Key of number two hundred, miss,” he said.  “Let me have it back again to-night.”

He closed the door and departed.

“Two hundred?” Philip exclaimed.  “Why, that’s my old room, the one up above.”

“I must see it,” Elizabeth insisted.  “Do please let us go up there.  I meant to ask you to show it me.”

“You are not thinking of moving, are you, Miss Grimes?” Philip enquired.

She snatched at the key, but he had just possessed himself of it and was swinging it from his forefinger.

“I don’t know,” she snapped.  “I was going up there, anyway.  You can’t have the key to-day.”

“Why not?” Philip asked in surprise.

“Never mind.  There are some things of mine up there.  I—­”