“Because I have some specially important work to do.  A very learned lady who is writing a historical book has commissioned me to collect all the literature relating to the Tell el Amarna letters—­the cuneiform tablets, you know, of Amenhotep the Fourth.”

“Well,” I said soothingly, “I expect your hand will soon be well.”

“Yes, but that won’t do.  The work has to be done immediately.  I have to send in the completed notes not later than this day week, and it will be quite impossible.  I am dreadfully disappointed.”

By this time I had unwound the voluminous wrappings and exposed the injury—­a deep gash in the palm that must have narrowly missed a good-sized artery.  Obviously the hand would be useless for fully a week.

“I suppose,” she said, “you couldn’t patch it up so that I could write with it?”

I shook my head.

“No, Miss Bellingham.  I shall have to put it on a splint.  We can’t run any risks with a deep wound like this.”

“Then I shall have to give up the commission, and I don’t know how my client will get the work done in the time.  You see, I am pretty well up in the literature of Ancient Egypt; in fact, I was to receive special payment on that account.  And it would have been such an interesting task, too.  However, it can’t be helped.”

I proceeded methodically with the application of the dressings, and meanwhile reflected.  It was evident that she was deeply disappointed.  Loss of work meant loss of money, and it needed but a glance at her rusty black dress to see that there was little margin for that.  Possibly, too, there was some special need to be met.  Her manner seemed almost to imply that there was.  And at this point I had a brilliant idea.

“I’m not sure that it can’t be helped,” said I.

She looked at me inquiringly, and I continued:  “I am going to make a proposition, and I shall ask you to consider it with an open mind.”

“That sounds rather portentous,” said she; “but I promise.  What is it?”

“It is this:  When I was a student I acquired the useful art of writing shorthand.  I am not a lightning reporter, you understand, but I can take matter down from dictation at quite respectable speed.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have several hours free every day—­usually, the whole of the afternoon up to six or half-past—­and it occurs to me that if you were to go to the Museum in the mornings you could get out your books, look up passages (you could do that without using your right hand), and put in book-marks.  Then I could come along in the afternoon and you could read out the selected passages to me, and I could take them down in shorthand.  We should get through as much in a couple of hours as you could in a day using longhand.”

“Oh, but how kind of you, Doctor Berkeley!” she exclaimed.  “How very kind!  Of course, I couldn’t think of taking up all your leisure in that way; but I do appreciate your kindness very much.”