Harry still stood with the intended tribute in his hand. Mrs. Mar’s eye fell upon it critically.
“Is it true—a—you don’t think much of gold pencils?” hazarded Bella.
“Oh, if you’re a person of leisure—”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“It’s a pursuit in itself, keeping a gold pencil going.”
“Oh, no. Look. This one goes beautifully.” Bella took it from Harry and shot it in and out.
“That’s just its wiliness. Wait till you need it.”
“Really this one’s very good. It’s warranted—”
“I’ll warrant it’ll always be wanting a new lead. Especially at the moment when you can’t possibly stop to niggle about with fitting one in. Then you’ll put the thing away till you can take an afternoon off just to get your handsome gold pencil into working order again. And when you’ve done that and gone thoroughly into the subject, you’ll find there isn’t a store on the Pacific coast that keeps your size leads. No lead in any store will ever fit your pencil. Then you’ll write to New York to a manufactory. Then you’ll wait a month, maybe two. Then, by the time you’ve got them, you’ll find the pencil has forgotten how to assimilate leads. It will break them off short and spit them out. If you try to discipline the pencil, it’ll turn sulky and refuse to open. Or it stays open and refuses to shut.”