“I bought this machine second-hand of you last week,” she began, after a little hesitation. He admitted his memory of the fact. “I want to know,” she said, “if you’ll change it for another.”
“Is there anything wrong with it, then?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said; “No!” she said; “Everything!” she said, in a crescendo of spasms, looking as if she were about to cry. The manager shrugged his shoulders.
“Very reprehensible of us,” said he; “and hardly our way. It is not customary; but, of course—if it doesn’t suit—to give satisfaction——” he cleared his throat.
“I don’t want to be unfair,” said the young woman. “It doesn’t suit me. It might another person.”
He had lifted, while speaking, its case off the type-writer, and now, placing the machine on a desk, inserted a sheet or two of paper, and ran his fingers deftly over the keys.
“Really, madam,” said he, removing and examining the slip, “I can detect nothing wrong.”
“I said—perhaps—only as regards myself.”
She was hanging her head, and spoke very low.
“But!” said he, and stopped—and could only add the emphasis of another deprecatory shrug.