that you put it in your pocket, and that it's there now, and that if
it isn't it ought to be. The second, that you never lent it to her.
The third, that she wishes people would not lend her pencils and then
clamour for them back, just when she has something else far more
important to think about.

"What do you know about babies?" she demanded.

"If you will read the paper," I replied, "you will see for yourself.
It's all there."

She flicked over the pages contemptuously.

"There doesn't seem much of it?" she retorted.

"It is condensed," I pointed out to her.

"I am glad it is short. All right, I'll read it," she agreed.

I thought my presence might disturb her, so went out into the garden.
I wanted her to get the full benefit of it. I crept back now and
again to peep through the open window. She did not seem to be making
many notes. But I heard her making little noises to herself. When I
saw she had reached the last page, I re-entered the room.

"Well?" I said.

"Is it meant to be funny," she demanded, "or is it intended to be
taken seriously?"