“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.

“Yes.”  She corrected herself.  “My people live there.”

“Oh!  Because—­in that case—­I’m sorry—­but—­the fact is, I’m afraid—­” I floundered, and she watched me floundering.  Then I plunged.  “I must have a typist who lives in London.” (And I might have added “a typist who won’t open fire on me at close range.”)

“But,” she said, “I do—­at least, I’m going to to-morrow evening.”

I must have sat staring then quite a long time, not at her, but at one of Roland Simpson’s sketches on the wall in front of me.

She followed, but not quite accurately, the direction of my thoughts.

“If you want references, I can give you heaps.  General Thesiger’s my uncle.  Why?  Do you know him?”

I had ceased staring.  He was not the General I knew, but she had spoken a sufficiently distinguished name.  I said as much.

“Of course lots of people know him,” she went on with a sort of radiant rapidity.  “And he knows lots of people.  But I wouldn’t write to him if I were you.  He’ll only be rude, and ask you who the devil you are.  There’s my father, Canon Thesiger.  It’s no good writing to him, either.  It’ll worry him.  And there’s—­no, you mustn’t bother the Archbishop.  But there’s the Dean.  You might write to him!  And there’s Colonel Braithwaite and Mrs. Braithwaite.  They’re all dears.  You might write to any of them.  Only I’d much rather you didn’t.”

“Why?” I said.  I thought I was entitled to ask why.

“Because,” she said, “it’ll only mean a lot more bother for me.”

I believe I meditated on this before I asked her, “Why should it?”

“Because it isn’t easy to get away and earn your own living in this country.  And they’ll try, poor dears, to stop me.  And they can’t.”

“If they don’t,” I said, “are you sure it won’t mean a lot of bother for them?”