In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. ‘You see, it’s difficult to do a service for someone when you don’t know who they are, or what they’re up to. ‘Am I right in supposing you to have been a sister to the late Mr Jarvis Remenham?’ ‘Quite right. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired. “Do not be frightened, dear,” she said. But he was at last persuaded that I mean you no harm, and that I might—just possibly, since I am both a gentleman and a major of militia—be able to be of more assistance to you than he himself.
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