"Why should it be?" Toni opened eyes of amazement. "I sit quite still—I hardly ever speak—and Jock and I—my dog—play little games together ever so quietly."
"You don't help him in his work?"
"No." She shook her head. "I'm not clever enough for that. I do typing for him sometimes, but even then I'm not really much use."
"You are not an expert, perhaps?"
"Oh, I can use the typewriter all right—I've had heaps of practice. But when it comes to revising things, sort of making up an article out of rough notes, I'm no good. To begin with I can never understand what the things are about, and I always get quotations hopelessly mixed."
"I see." In spite of himself Herrick laughed. "You are not a great reader, then?"
"No—I hate books," she replied frankly. "Somehow it seems a waste of time to read when you can be doing nicer things. Besides, my husband doesn't like to see me reading what he calls trash, and I simply can't get through the things he gives me!"
"Well, after all life's the most interesting book of all—when one's young," he said indulgently. "But I'm afraid you'll wish you'd developed a taste for reading when you get like me, middle-aged and dull."
"But you aren't dull——" she was beginning eagerly, when a loud knock at the back door of the bungalow interrupted her sentence, and she broke off hastily.
"That'll be my messenger back," said Herrick, rising. "With garments for you, I suppose. I'll go and see."