"I don't mind sleeping upstairs, now that I have a telephone," she said serenely. "Max and Rudolph moved everything up this afternoon."
Poopendyke and I returned to the study. I, for one, was bitterly disappointed.
"I'm sorry that I had the 'phone put in," I said.
"Please don't call it a 'phone!" she objected. "I hate the word 'phone."
"So do I," said Poopendyke recklessly.
I glared at him. What right had he to criticise my manner of speech? He started to leave the room, after a perfunctory scramble to put his papers in order, but she broke off in the middle of a sentence to urge him to remain. She announced that she was calling on both of us.
"Please don't stop your work on my account," she said, and promptly sat down at his typewriter and began pecking at the keys. "You must teach me how to run a typewriter, Mr. Poopendyke. I shall be as poor as a church mouse before long, and I know father won't help me. I may have to become a stenographer."
He blushed abominably. I don't believe I've ever seen a more unattractive fellow than Poopendyke.
"Oh, every cloud has its silver lining," said he awkwardly.
"But I am used to gold," said she. The bell on the machine tinkled. "What do I do now?" He made the shift and the space for her.