intense face. "You look a bit fagged, Innes," remarked Mabel Hirst, as the typist approached the fire, and knelt down so that the flames shone upon her small, intense face. "Oh, it's not fag so much as disgust," she replied, in a voice of individual quality. "I don't think I can stick this any longer. I didn't take a secretarial training in order to type out rows of figures all day long. I am bored, dears—bored stiff! All my powers are wasting their sweetness on the desert air—or rather the town lack of air! The desert would be all right. I shouldn't a scrap mind blushing unseen if I had plenty of space to blush in! Ouf! I feel as if I should choke!" "Oh, it's not fag so much as disgust," she replied, in a voice of individual quality. "I don't think I can stick this any longer. I didn't take a secretarial training in order to type out rows of figures all day long. I am bored, dears—bored stiff! All my powers are wasting their sweetness on the desert air—or rather the town lack of air! The desert would be all right. I shouldn't a scrap mind blushing unseen if I had plenty of space to blush in! Ouf! I feel as if I should choke!" She stared at the fire with firmly folded lips, every line of her slender person seeming to breathe the resentment she felt. She stared at the fire with firmly folded lips, every line of her slender person seeming to breathe the resentment she felt. "It's pretty bad," agreed Miss Turner, who was lacing up her hoots. "Suppose nobody's got a raincloak they'll be saint enough to lend?" "It's pretty bad," agreed Miss Turner, who was lacing up her hoots. "Suppose nobody's got a raincloak they'll be saint enough to lend?" "Yes," replied Miss Innes, "you shall have mine. I brought a gamp, and I haven't far to walk. But look here—mind you bring it back." "Yes," replied Miss Innes, "you shall have mine. I brought a gamp, and I haven't far to walk. But look here—mind you bring it back." "Course I will. To-morrow without fail, moddum. Oh, this sleet! It really is something chronic." "Course I will. To-morrow without fail, moddum. Oh, this sleet! It really is something chronic." The dressing-room opened out of the office, but in the absence of
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