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"I took it," he said, and he spoke with an accent she could not identify, "because of the money."

"Well, perhaps I did too."

"Yes, the pay's good, and I was wanting a job badly at the moment. But now I've got a better one."

She pricked up. "Where?"

"Over at Sandlake. A pal of mine's opening a cafe there and I'm going in with him."

"What's it like in Sandlake?"

"Oh, not too bad. Anyway, it's the only place round here where there's any life at all."

"How does one get there?"

"That's the trouble—only one late bus a week. You'd better choose Saturday for your day off. I did."

"And yet you were there last night, which was Friday."

"How do you know?"

"Because you weren't dressed this morning when we came."

"Smart, ain't you?"

He sat at right angles to her, tilting back his chair, and looking at her with some complacency. Her heart began to beat quickly and she felt frightened of herself. Sylvia had warned her about this Hightower, had told her not to waste her time on him. Sylvia knew that she was always falling in love with the wrong sort of man—with anybody who made a pass at her, was the unchoice expression she recalled with a blush. But he was exactly her type. He reminded her in a way of Charley Vine, or rather he was an exaggeration of all she admired in Charley, with the advantage that he seemed to be very much taken with her, which she had to acknowledge Charley Vine had not. But viewed in connection with her own ambition he was completely useless, far more ineligible than Charley Vine. He was an adventurer—a colonial she judged from his accent—grabbing at opportunity in the same way as she was. . . . No, she must have as little to do with him as possible. Of course he would have to show her a few things about the job, but that couldn't take him long, and then he would be gone . . . no further than Sandlake.