M. de Guise drew the open book toward him, and, tearing off a slip of paper, began to write on it in a cranky but rapid hand, with an occasional glance at the foreign text.
"Here you are. I hope you will be able to read my writing."
"Thank you very much indeed," said Fenella, demurely.
"Anything else you want? Paper?"
She had dived into her muff and was splitting open various envelopes with her forefinger.
"If you wouldn't mind. But I'm giving you so much trouble."
"No trouble at all. Here are three sheets. You have a pencil?"
"M—m."
"If it's one you stole from the catalogue desk I wouldn't suck it. Those aren't the sort you suck. See! you've made a blue smudge on your lips."
Fenella dived into her muff again, and, drawing out what I believe is termed a vanity bag, examined her lips on the little mirror. She rubbed them hard.