"Rhoda Sampson, the creature calls herself," Pauline was saying in her
clear, high-pitched voice. "Her people live in Kentish Town, or somewhere
in the dim wilds about there. You would know it by just looking at her."

"Does she come from Kentish Town every day?" asked Rose.

"Three times a week. On the top of an omnibus, one may be sure. And she
imbibes facts from _The Civil Service Geography_ all the way. I found the
book in her bag yesterday. I believe she wants to get into the Post Office
eventually. It is a worthy ambition."

"Whom are you talking of, my dears?" asked Miss Merivale from her seat by
the fire. Pauline turned round with a little stare. Miss Merivale was so
quiet and unassuming a personage that she had got into the habit of
ignoring her. "Of Clare's new amusement, Miss Merivale," she said, with a
laugh. Her laugh, like her voice, was a trifle hard. "It was scientific
dressmaking when I was at Woodcote last, you remember, Rose dear. Now it
is a society. Clare is secretary."

"But you spoke of some girl who came here," persisted Miss Merivale.

Pauline lifted her delicately-pencilled eyebrows. "Oh, that is Clare's
typewriter. She is part of the joke. If you saw Clare and her together
over their letters, you would think they were reforming the universe. It
hasn't dawned on poor Sampson yet that Clare will get tired of the whole
business in a month. It is lucky she has the Post Office to fall back on.
Clare is exactly what she used to be at school, Rose, 'everything by
starts and nothing long.' It amuses me to watch her."

"She doesn't tire of you, Pauline," said Rose fondly.