"Yes," she said, "it's typing. I can't do anything else. But if you want
shorthand, I could learn it."

This gave me an opening. "Well--I'm sorry--but the fact is--"

"Did you like what I sent you?"

That staggered me. I hadn't allowed for her voice. For a moment I
wondered wildly what _had_ she sent me?

"Oh, yes. I liked it. But--" I began it again.

She leaned forward this time, peering under my elbow (the minx! I'm
convinced she knew the infernal thing was there).

"I see," she said. "You've lost it. Don't bother. I can do another. As
long as you liked it, that's all right."

I remember thinking violently: "It isn't all right. It's all wrong. And
the more I like it (if I _do_ like it) the worse it's going to be." But
all I said was, "You wrote from Canterbury, didn't you?"

"Yes."

It was as if she challenged me with: "Why not? Why shouldn't one write
from Canterbury?" And she stuck out her little chin as her eyes opened
fire on me at close range.

"Do you live there?" I said.