Her face fell at once.
“You heard me—of course,” she said. “Yes, I—it was out of sorts, as you say. One gets fancies, perhaps, living alone, and typing—typing.”
I thought of the discordant clack going on hour by hour—the dead words of others made brassily vociferous, until one’s own individuality would become merged in the infernal harmonics.
“And so,” I said, “like the dog’s master in the fable, you quarrelled with an old servant.”
“O, no!” she answered. “I had only had it for a week—since I came here.”
“You have only been here a week?”
“Little more,” she replied. “I had to move from my old rooms. It is very kind of you to take such an interest in me. Will you tell me what I can do for you?”
My instructions were soon given. The morrow would see them attended to. No, she need not send the copies on. I would myself call for them in the afternoon.
“I hope this machine will be more to the purpose,” I said.
“I hope so, too,” she answered.