She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. ‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. Jack, however, had an expedient for mastering this difficulty. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. The floor was thickly strewn with sawdust and shavings; and across the room ran a long and wide bench, furnished at one end with a powerful vice; next to which three nails driven into the boards served, it would appear from the lump of unconsumed tallow left in their custody, as a substitute for a candlestick. The Widgett method of thought puzzled her weakly rhetorical mind.
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