Here was I, “alone in London,” all my poor little capital spent on the business-training which I had joyfully hoped was going to bring me in a nice “independent-feeling” income of at least two pounds a week. At the offices of William Waters and Son, of the Near Oriental Shipping Agency, a post I had obtained after weeks of weary searching for work, my salary was twenty-five shillings a week. _Now_, in all probability, I was going to lose even that. And then what was I to do? How was I to go on contributing my half of the rent of the Marconi Mansions flat; how was I to pay for even my cheap meals and my “these’ll-have-to-do” clothes? How _was_ I to earn my living? Obviously, I’m not cut out for a business-girl! My three months in the office has plainly shown me that. “You lack method, Miss Trant”—as Mr. Dundonald, the head of our department, has told me more than once. “You lack _concentrrayshn_. You are intelligent enough, for a young lady, but when I think I can rrely on you, what happens? I find ye out in some rideeclus mistake that the rrrawest student from Pitman’s wouldn’t make. And this after I’ve warrrned you times and again. What do you think is going to be the end of it?” Evidently the sack. And what else _is_ there I can do? Nothing! I can’t draw fashion-plates or write articles for the magazines. Go on the stage—no, I never _could_ remember my cue, even in private theatricals. I love children—but people want diplomas and Montessori Systems with their nursery-governesses. For serving in a shop I don’t suppose I’m tall enough. That’s one of the inconsistencies of men—they quote poetry about a girl being “just as high as their hearts,” and then advertise for parlour-maids and mannequins who must stand well over five foot nine, which I don’t. Though, even if my nickname _is_ “Tots,” thank goodness I’m not dumpy, like little Miss Holt, who thinks a poor husband is better than none.... What about the principal profession open to women—getting married? Well, but I never see any men, now a days—you can’t call things-in-the-City _men_, exactly—whom I could get married _to_. Besides, there’s nobody, now that I’m an unbecomingly-dressed pauper, who would want to marry me.—Except, perhaps ... Sydney Vandeleur ...? Dear old Sydney is a friend left over from the days before the smash in our family when “_the world was more than kin when we had the ready tin_.” I’ve seen him several times since, and he was just the same as ever, so sympathetic and amusing; such a “pal,” and with something about him that made me quite certain he’d be ready to become something more, the minute I encouraged him.