CHAPTER IV 

Elizabeth paused for breath at the top of the third flight of stairs. She leaned against the iron balustrade. 

"You poor dear!" she exclaimed. "How many times a day did you have to do this?" 

"I didn't go out very often," he reminded her, "and it wasn't every day that the lift was out of order. It's only one more flight." 

She looked up the stairs, sighed, and raised her smart, grey, tailor-made skirt a little higher over her shoes. 

"Well," she announced heroically, "lead on. If they would sometimes dust these steps--but, after all, it doesn't matter to you now, does it? Fancy that poor girl, though." 

He smiled a little grimly. 

"A few flights of stairs aren't the worst things she has had to face, I'm afraid," he said. 

"I am rather terrified of her," Elizabeth confided, supporting herself by her companion's shoulder. "I think I know that ultra-independent type. Kick me if I put my foot in it. Is this the door?" 

Philip nodded and knocked softly. There was a sharp "Come in!" 

"Put the key down, please," the figure at the typewriter said, as they entered. 

The words had scarcely left Martha's lips before she turned around, conscious of some other influence in the room. Philip stepped forward. 

"Miss Grimes," he said, "I have brought Miss Dalstan in to see you. She wants--" 

He paused. Something in the stony expression of the girl who had risen to her feet and stood now facing them, her ashen paleness unrelieved by any note of colour, her hands hanging in front of her patched and shabby frock, seemed to check the words upon his lips. Her voice was low but not soft. It seemed to create at once an atmosphere of anger and resentment. 
Who's she with?
Philip