"My invitation did not extend to them. She passed inside and upstairs without a word. They were now both in a state of unprecedented physical fitness. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. 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. I can never be grateful enough. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply.
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