I began raking through drawers and pigeon-holes, pretending to find her letter and the sample of her work that she had sent me, though I knew all the time that they lay under my hand hidden by the blotter. I wanted to give myself time; I wanted to create the impression that I was old at this game; that I had to do with scores and scores of young women seeking employment; to make her realize the grim fact of competition; to saturate her with the idea that she was only one of scores and scores, all docketed and pigeon-holed, any one of whom might have superior qualities; when it would be easy enough to say, "I'm sorry, but the fact is, I rather think I've engaged somebody already."
"Yes," she said, "it's typing. I can't do anything else. But if you want shorthand, I could learn it."
This gave me an opening. "Well—I'm sorry—but the fact is—"
"Did you like what I sent you?"
That staggered me. I hadn't allowed for her voice. For a moment I wondered wildly what had she sent me?
"Oh, yes. I liked it. But—" I began it again.
She leaned forward this time, peering under my elbow (the minx! I'm convinced she knew the infernal thing was there).
"I see," she said. "You've lost it. Don't bother. I can do another. As long as you liked it, that's all right."
I remember thinking violently: "It isn't all right. It's all wrong. And the more I like it (if I do like it) the worse it's going to be." But all I said was, "You wrote from Canterbury, didn't you?"
"Yes."