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Most men and many women are tormented by it they itch for recognition." "Of course. One is." "You too, Pammie?" "I have been. Less now. Life gets to look short, when you're thirty-nine." "Ah, but you have it recognition, even fame, in the world you work in. You count for something. If you value it, there it is. I wouldn't grumble if I'd played your part in the piece.
I'm off. Sorry I've kept you up, Pammie. Good-night. Good-night, Frances. Yes, I shall get the bus at the corner. Good-night." The door closed after Nan, shutting in the friends and their friendship and their anchored peace. Off went Nan on the bus at the corner, whistling softly into the night. Like a bird her heart rose up and sang, at the lit pageant of London swinging by.
After all, there are plenty of jobs you can do that want doing simply shouting to be done." "Pammie dear, it's worse than I've said. I'm a low creature. I don't only want to do jobs that want doing: I want to count, to make a name. I'm damnably ambitious. You'll despise that, of course and you're quite right, it is despicable. But there it is.
"Oh, Rosalind's not the only one, though she'll do. Anyhow I've trapped you into saying an honest and unkind thing about her, for once; that's something. Wish you weren't such a dear old fraud, Pammie." Frances Carr came back, in her dressing gown, looking about twenty-three, her brown hair in two plaits. "Pamela, you mustn't sit up any more. I'm awfully sorry, Nan, but her head...." "Right oh.
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