"I've been trying to make it out since tea time," she said, "and I can't. That's why I was strumming."
"Has something gone wrong with a cheque?" I asked.
"Oh, no," she laughed, "you don't understand. I'm reading law too. I'm going in for an exam at the London University. You won't mind explaining about negotiable instruments, will you, if I promise not to play the piano? Please sit down."
I sat down and explained the matter as lucidly as I could. The explanation took some little time, but though it was nearly eleven when I left, the proceeding seemed to strike her as perfectly natural, and I did not complain, particularly as it meant deliverance from the piano.
The next night, however, I had scarcely settled down when the strumming began once more. After the trouble that I had taken the night before it was ungrateful of the damsel, and she had distinctly promised that the noise should not occur again. I stood it for half an hour, and then went up to make another protest.
"I thought you were never coming," the damsel said, in an aggrieved way; "I want you to tell me the difference between a cheque and a bill of exchange payable at a banker's. Have some tea, won't you?"
I had some tea, and furnished her with further information. We discussed the Bills of Exchange Act at some length. It was a much pleasanter way of imbibing the law than by one's self, and her vivâ voce examination was not without its uses. However, the situation was unconventional, and I had my doubts on its advisability.
The next afternoon, when I came back from the office, I was informed that a lady was waiting to see me. In my room, sitting perpendicularly on the edge of an armchair, was the elderly spinster.
"Is your name Arbuthnot?" she inquired, abruptly and severely.
I admitted the accusation.