“Don’t you worry about my mood, Ken; it’s light enough. But I want you to help me earn my living for a week. Will you?”
“That I will not! I’ll be no party to your foolishness.”
“Now, Ken,” went on Patty, for she knew his “bark was worse than his bite,” “I don’t want you to do anything much. But, in your law office, where you’re studying, aren’t there some papers I can copy, or something like that?”
“Patty, you’re a back number. That ‘copying’ that you mean is all out of date. In these days of typewriters and manifold thigamajigs, we lawyers don’t have much copying done by hand. Except, perhaps, engrossing. Can you do that?”
“How prettily you say ‘we lawyers,’” teased Patty.
“Of course I do. I’m getting in practice against the time it’ll be true. But if you really want to copy, buy a nice Spencerian Copy-book, and fill up its pages. It’ll be about as valuable as any other work of the sort.”
“Ken, you’re horrid. So unsympathetic.”
“I’m crool only to be kind! You must know, Patty, that copying is out of the question.”
“Well, never mind then; let’s talk of something else.”
“‘Let’s sit upon the ground and tell strange stories of the death of kings.’”