"Oh dear, no—nothing to speak of," I went on writing—the unprecedented—folly—the—blatant—charlatanism——
"Mr. Griggs, do you understand these things?"
——Lord Beaconsfield's—"I think so, Miss Westonhaugh"—Afghan policy——There, I thought,
I think that would rouse Mr. Currie Ghyrkins, if he ever saw it, which I trust he never will. I had done, and I folded the numbered sheets in an oblong bundle.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Westonhaugh; I was just finishing a sentence. I am quite at your service."
"Oh no! I see you are too busy."
"Not in the least, I assure you. Is it that tangled skein? Let me help you."
"Oh thank you. It is so tiresome, and I am not in the least inclined to be industrious."
I took the wool and set to work. It was very easy, after all; I pulled the loops through, and back again and through from the other side, and I found the ends, and began to wind it up on a piece of paper. It is singular, though, how the unaided wool can tie itself into every kind of a knot—reef, carrick bend, bowline, bowline in a bight, not to mention a variety of hitches and indescribable perversions of entanglement. I was getting on very well, though. I looked up at her face, pale and weary with a sleepless night, but beautiful—ah yes—beautiful beyond compare. She smiled faintly.
"You are very clever with your fingers. Where did you learn it? Have you a sister who makes you wind her wool for her at home?"