“Would you?” Again Mr. Hengist’s eyes twinkled. “Then I should move into them by all means. You might take in typewriting.”

She was dubious.

“What sort of typewriting? I haven’t got a machine, and they’re awfully expensive to buy. Besides, I don’t know how to type.”

“Easily learn,” he said. “As a matter of fact I’ve got a machine I don’t want. I’ll bring it along.”

She looked rather suspicious.

“You’ve got a machine?”

“Yes,” he lied cheerfully. “I bought it not long ago, and I’ve hardly used it. A Remington. You can have it.”

“It’s awfully kind of you,” she said. “You’ll—you’ll let me pay for it—won’t you?”

“No, I will not!” said Mr. Hengist loudly. “Upon my word, Elizabeth, things have come to a pretty pass if I can’t give you a typewriter if I wish!”

She laughed.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings!” she said. “I don’t believe you’ve got a typewriter at all. Have you?”

“Never you mind,” he growled. “Any more nonsense about paying from you, and I wash my hands of you!”

“Oh, please!” she begged. “I won’t mention the word again! Thank you very, very much!”

Mr. Hengist struck another match.

“You learn to typewrite decently—mind you use your brain, Elizabeth!—and then we I’ll see about getting work. I know several people who might be willing to give you a trial. There’s old Chilton, who writes articles for the Cornhill. If you can type literary stuff with intelligence hell recommend you fast enough. He knows a lot of literary people. It would be interesting work, too.”

“Yes, I think I should like it,” she said. “If I’m not too stupid to learn.”

“No one’s too stupid to learn,” said Mr. Hengist. “Go and put your things on, child, and come along out to tea.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The removal from the hotel to her new rooms was nervous work. First there was the ordeal of giving notice; then the worse ordeal of tipping the staff, and wondering whether she had given the page-boy enough. The taxi-driver was surly and would not carry her trunks up to her rooms. He and the landlady “had words” and a small crowd gathered round to share in the fun. Only Elizabeth did not think that it was fun; she longed for someone— Mr. Hengist, perhaps—to come and take charge of the situation. When you had a man with you these disturbances did not happen, or if they did you had nothing to do with them. There was no one to come to the rescue; Elizabeth had to bribe a loafer to carry her trunks upstairs. The landlady dogged his footsteps, warning him to wipe them muddy boots and not to knock the paint off the door, or else he’d hear about it.