"Not a bit," said Colin. "I'm very fond of a little gentle exercise." He pulled out a note-case and began to search through its various compartments. "If you'll wait half a minute," he added, "I'll see if I can find you that stamp." She stood watching him with a certain look of indecision in her face. "I don't know if you'd care to come in," she said rather hesitatingly. "I have only got a small studio, but I can at least offer you a cup of tea." Colin unearthed the stamp and presented it to her in triumph. "If you're quite certain I shan't be a nuisance," he said, "I should like it immensely. Fighting in the street always gives me a thirst." Miss Nancy Seymour's blue eyes twinkled merrily, and, inserting a Yale key into the lock, she led the way up a small winding staircase to a door on the first landing. "You mustn't mind if it's not very tidy," she remarked apologetically. "I have been typing all the morning, and I've not had time to put things straight." She opened the door, and, following her inside, Colin found himself in an oddly shaped but rather attractive apartment, the principal feature of which was a big glass skylight, shaped like a coach-house roof. The furniture was scanty, consisting chiefly of a low, comfortable-looking couch, a couple of old Windsor armchairs, and a stout deal table which at some remote period had evidently been stained brown. On the latter stood a typewriter flanked by a litter of loose sheets and several piles of badly written manuscript. The farther corner of the room was curtained off, as though to serve the purpose of a kitchen or bedroom. With a wave of her hand Nancy indicated the couch. "Try my patent sofa," she said hospitably. "I'll tidy up while the kettle's boiling." "Don't do it for me," protested Colin. "I like to see a room a little topsy-turvy. You can't think how refreshing it seems after the suffocating neatness of a hospital." "I'll put away these horrible manuscripts at all events," returned his hostess. "I've been working at them ever since nine o'clock. The mere sight of them makes me feel ill." "What are they?" inquired Colin. She made as near an approach to a grimace as nature would allow. "Stories. And such bad ones! I think that all the worst authors in the world must live in Chelsea." "It was rather unkind to type them out," observed Colin. "Somebody will probably have to read them now." Nancy laughed. "Unfortunately," she said, "it happens to be my profession." She covered up the typewriter and collected all the papers into an indiscriminate bundle. "I sha'n't be long," she added, moving away toward the curtain. "Make yourself comfortable, and please smoke if you want to."