‘Oh, your patience!’

’I wished to leave again and again.  But at the end she always begged me not to desert her—­that was how she put it.  After all, I never had the heart to go.’

’Very kind of you, but—­those questions are so difficult to decide.  Self-sacrifice may be quite wrong, I’m afraid.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Virginia anxiously.

’Yes, I am sure it is often wrong—­all the more so because people proclaim it a virtue without any reference to circumstances.  Then how did you get away at last?’

’The poor woman died.  Then I had a place scarcely less disagreeable.  Now I have none at all; but I really must find one very soon.’

She laughed at this allusion to her poverty, and made nervous motions.

‘Let me tell you what my own course has been,’ said Miss Nunn, after a short reflection.  ’When my mother died, I determined to have done with teaching—­you know that.  I disliked it too much, and partly, of course, because I was incapable.  Half my teaching was a sham—­a pretence of knowing what I neither knew nor cared to know.  I had gone into it like most girls, as a dreary matter of course.’

‘Like poor Alice, I’m afraid.’

’Oh, it’s a distressing subject.  When my mother left me that little sum of money I took a bold step.  I went to Bristol to learn everything I could that would help me out of school life.  Shorthand, book-keeping, commercial correspondence—­I had lessons in them all, and worked desperately for a year.  It did me good; at the end of the year I was vastly improved in health, and felt myself worth something in the world.  I got a place as cashier in a large shop.  That soon tired me, and by dint of advertising I found a place in an office at Bath.  It was a move towards London, and I couldn’t rest till I had come the whole way.  My first engagement here was as shorthand writer to the secretary of a company.  But he soon wanted some one who could use a typewriter.  That was a suggestion.  I went to learn typewriting, and the lady who taught me asked me in the end to stay with her as an assistant.  This is her house, and here I live with her.’

‘How energetic you have been!’

’How fortunate, perhaps.  I must tell you about this lady—­Miss Barfoot.  She has private means—­not large, but sufficient to allow of her combining benevolence with business.  She makes it her object to train young girls for work in offices, teaching them the things that I learnt in Bristol, and typewriting as well.  Some pay for their lessons, and some get them for nothing.  Our workrooms are in Great Portland Street, over a picture-cleaner’s shop.  One or two girls have evening lessons, but our pupils for the most part are able to come in the day.  Miss Barfoot hasn’t much interest in the lower classes; she wishes to be of use to the daughters of educated people.  And she is of use.  She is doing admirable work.’

‘Oh, I am sure she must be!  What a wonderful person!’