“There are plenty of chances for a girl who knows her business and you’re your own mistress and not at the beck and call of any old cat, who thinks she has bought you outright just because she’s paying you starvation wages,” she said with a finely independent air.  Then in a thoroughly business-like way she went on to give the address of the school at which she had studied herself and had offered to take Nora there any evening the coming week.

In the end, to Nora’s great pleasure, she had suggested joining forces for an outing on the coming Sunday.  With a gesture that seemed to refer one to her card, she had explained that after typing all week in a stuffy office she always tried to have a Sunday out of doors to get her mind off her work.  It was arranged that they should go somewhere together, leaving their destination to be decided when they met.  They were to meet in front of the National Gallery at a quarter before ten.  But, although poor Nora waited for over an hour, her friend did not turn up, and she had returned sadly to her dreary room.  Neither of the girls had thought to exchange addresses.  Beyond her name and occupation Miss Hodson’s card vouchsafed nothing.

Nor had Nora ever seen her again, although she had returned several times to the restaurant where they had met.  She had spent many of the long sleepless hours of the night in speculation as to what had become of her.  She was sure that some accident had befallen her or she would have met her again.  No one could be so cruel intentionally.

Once again in a tea room she had timidly ventured, prompted by sheer loneliness, to speak to an elderly woman with gray hair.  It was a harmless little remark about some flowers in a vase on the counter.  The woman had stared at her coldly for a moment before she said: 

“I do not seem to recall where I have had the pleasure of seeing you before.”

A flash of the old temper had crimsoned Nora’s cheek, but she made no reply.  Since then, aching as she was for a little human companionship, she had spoken to no one.

She had had two long letters from Miss Pringle, whose star seemed momentarily to be in the ascendant.  Mrs. Hubbard had been ordered to the seaside; they were later to take a continental trip.  There was even talk of consulting a famous and expensive specialist before returning to the calm of Tunbridge Wells.  But prosperity had not made Miss Pringle selfish.  In the face of the gift of a costume, which Mrs. Hubbard had actually never worn, having conceived a strong distaste for it on its arrival from the dressmaker, she had time to think of her less fortunate friend.

While waiting for the situation which was sure to come eventually, why didn’t Nora run down to Brighton for a week after the terrible London heat?  One could get really very comfortable lodgings remarkably cheap at this season.  It would do her no end of good and, on the theory that a watched pot never boils, she would be certain to find that there was something for her on her return.