She went out and I returned to my sofa. After an hour or so my mind began to get to work, and I got up and walked slowly up and down the room. The gentle exercise seemed to stimulate me. Seeing my new putter in the corner of the room, I took it up (my brain full of other things) and, dropping a golf ball on the carpet, began to practise. After five or ten minutes, my ideas being now quite clear, I was just about to substitute the pen for the putter when Celia came in.
"Oh!" she said. "Are—are you busy?"
I turned round from a difficult putt with the club in my hand.
"Very," I said. "What is it?"
"I don't want to disturb you if you're working——"
"I am."
"But I just wondered if you—if you liked artichokes."
I looked at her coldly.
"I will fill in your confession book another time," I said stiffly, and I sat down with dignity at my desk and dipped the putter in the ink.
"It's for dinner to-night," said Celia persuasively. "Do say. Because I don't want to eat them all by myself."