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But Rosamund was not looking at the view. A sudden desperate nostalgia had taken hold of her—nostalgia for roofs and streets and houses broken into little flats, where women like herself lived and talked and laughed and squabbled, played bridge, smoked, drank gin when they could afford it, made plans, and met men. How was she to live in this lonely, empty place, with two women so utterly unlike herself, so utterly unlike her friends—one snooty and the other goofy. Between them they would bore her to screams. And whom else would she ever get to know? Her disappointment over Charley Vine had shown her what was likely. Yet her hopes had been so high. Suddenly, standing and fighting there, she recovered herself. She must keep this job, she must stick it out, if only for the money. And surely she was smart enough to make something out of it besides that. She might not find all that Sylvia Dunning had promised, or that she had promised herself, but at least she was taking a step in the right direction and she would be a fool if she didn't go on.