THE INK
The ink-pot contained a shallow sediment, with short hairs, grit, and a little moisture in it. It came out on the pen in chunks. When I had spoiled the second postcard, Eliza said I was not to talk like that.
"Very well, then," I said, "why don't you have the ink-pot refilled? I'm not made of postcards, and I hate waste."
She replied that anybody would think I was made of something to hear me talk. I thought I had never heard a poorer retort, and told her so. I did not stay to argue it further, as I had to be off to the city. On my return I found the ink-pot full. "This," I thought to myself, "is very nice of Eliza." I had a letter I wanted to write, and sat down to it.
I wrote one word, and it came out a delicate pale gray. I called Eliza at once. I was never quieter in my manner, and it was absurd of her to say that I needn't howl the house down.
"We will not discuss that," I replied. "Just now I sat down to write a letter——"
"What do you want to write letters for now? You might just as well have done them at the office."
I shrugged my shoulders in a Continental manner. "You are probably not aware that I was writing to your own mother. She has so few pleasures. If you do not feel rebuked now——"
"I don't think mamma will lend you any more if you do write."
"We will not enter into that. Why did you fill the ink-pot with water?"