was: m'lady finally preceded her sister meekly into the room and looked up gratefully at Leda as she placed chairs for them near the tea tray.
It was just like olden times as Miss Lovatt settled her wiry frame into a chintz-covered chair and demanded of Leda exactly what she thought she had been about to keep herself away from her friends for so long. As Leda struggled to explain without causing the ladies undue distress by too exact a description of what it meant to be employed for wages, Lady Cove saved her by saying in her soft voice that it was very good of Leda to come whenever she might honor them. Leda smiled at her, thankful for the reprieve.
With this addition to the party, the conversation passed to other matters, including the tenants in Miss Myrtle's house. "Coarse-featured," Miss Wrotham said sweepingly of the new mistress. "You can see her nose beyond her bonnet. We have not called."
"He is an animal merchant," Miss Lovatt said.
"An animal merchant?" Leda echoed.
"He deals in animals," Miss Lovatt amplified, with an enigmatic lift of her finger. "Deceased. On a large scale."
There was no more to be said to that. Whatever the gentleman did with deceased animals on a large scale was better left to the imagination. A moment of respectful, melancholic silence passed, as everyone contemplated the sad fate of Miss Myrtle's house, and Leda thought of her snug bedroom with the velvet Brussels carpet and
irise
wallpaper patterned in dark blue on shades of pink and red.
"Have you made any improvements to your new flat, dear?" Lady Cove asked Leda.
"Oh! Improvements?" She cast about for an appropriate answer, something to deflect further inquiry into the parlor flat that she hadn't been able to keep. "I have not decided yet what improvements to make. I don't like to be hasty."
"Very wise," Miss Lovatt said, nodding. "You are always such a steady girl, Leda. We have worried about you, but I believe you shall do very well."
"Oh, yes, ma'am."
"Leda tells me that she wishes to become a typist," Mrs. Wrotham announced. "I must allow that I don't like it."
"Indeed not!" Miss Lovatt set down her teacup. "No, we all agreed that a typist was not suitable. The couturiere is the preferred choice."
"I was—that is—you see—I find I am not quite comfortable at Madame Elise's," Leda said.
"Then you must change your situation," Lady Cove said in her kind, whispery voice. "What can we do to help you?"
Leda looked at her gratefully. "Oh, Lady Cove—it would be a very great compliment to me if I might have a character—" She broke off, aware of the inelegant abruptness of the request, "—a sentence only—really, I fear Madame Elise won't—if it would not impose—your good nature—" She bit her lip on the tumble of words.
"We shall consider," Miss Lovatt said. "It isn't that we are not happy to recommend you, Leda dear, you understand. But perhaps you should not be too previous about leaving Madame Elise to become a typist."
"But, ma'am—"
"You must listen to wiser council, Leda. A typist is not suitable. It is an occupation for strong-minded females."
"You will dirty your gloves," Mrs. Wrotham added.
"But she needn't wear gloves, need she?" Lady Cove asked timidly.
"Of course she must wear gloves, Clarimond. There will be persons of a common class involved in such a post. Runners. Shopboys." Miss Lovatt's nostrils flared. "Actors, perhaps."
"Actors!" Lady Cove squeaked.
"Perhaps she might be required to type their parts. I myself have seen an advertisement for the Ladies' Typewriting and General Copying Office, offering to copy actor's parts and documents for solicitors."
The three ladies all looked reproachfully at Leda. She lowered her eyes in disgrace and took a sip of tea, having no defense to make. She would very much have liked to eat several more of the paper-thin slices of bread and butter, but that would have been gauche.
"We shall consider," Miss Lovatt said—meaning, of course, that she would
Learning to Kill: Stories