(Untitled)

[betty_roberts]

She had more or less convinced herself she'd dreamed this place. The writers' room had gone on being the writers' room, they'd all weathered Hilary's rivalry with Grace Cavendish, and while Betty has no idea what happened to upset Mr. Winthrop, it seems to have blown over too

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[there_is_a_me]

There's a nod and a small wave from one of the people (really, not a hallucination) she met last time. This time he's got fewer dogs and more weapons.

[betty_roberts]

People you know are good.

Though the weapons are slightly worrying, perhaps.

"Mr.--er. Spoon, good evening."

He prefers not to have a title, if she remebers correctly.

[there_is_a_me]

"Just Spoon, yes, Ms. Roberts." He agrees, cheerfully enough. There's a head-jerk at the weaponry, "Bit of an invasion going on back home. Just polishing up for a bit before going back to find out the latest. How've you been?"

[betty_roberts]

"An invasion?" she asks, eyes wide.

She's used to war news, really. But not to knowing people who are, as they say, in the thick of things.

"I've been fine," she adds. "A little busy, but nothing too out of the ordinary.

[samstewart]

What she might have to do in the next five seconds or so is to hold onto her script, because when the door opens rather unexpectedly the person who opens it lets out a gasp, and then hastily darts inside and closes the door behind her, leaning against it to catch her breath.

'...Right.' It's a young woman somewhere around Betty's age, dressed in a khaki-and-olive-drab uniform with a square satchel slung over one shoulder. 'A fortnight of it not showing up, and now it does. I do wish it wasn't always behind Mr Foyle's door, though....'

A Englishwoman, by her accent. And clearly more than a little oblivious to anyone standing nearby.

[betty_roberts]

It's quite an entrance, really.

"Oh, my," says Betty. "Are you . . . are you all right?"

An American, clearly, bu the accent. But the clothes mark her neatly as from about 1940.

[samstewart]

'Oh!' Sam blinks, startled, and gives the other woman an apologetic smile. 'I'm frightfully sorry -- Father always did say I'd trample someone one of these days, the way I go barging into places.'

She reaches up to smooth her hair, tucking a stray strand back underneath her cap. 'I'm fine, really. I simply wasn't expecting to end up here again. Mr Foyle's door hasn't opened here for a while, and I was wondering if it would.'

Now that it has, she's rather pleased.

[betty_roberts]

"This is only the second time I've been here. It turns up in the writers' room. And I'm all right, so no apologies necessary."

She holds out the hand not holding the script.

"Betty Roberts. Of Pittsburgh. In Pennsylvania."