“Is that really a fact?” inquired Miss Maitland.
The very queer thing about it all was that he came in on the afternoon of the very second day I was there. I was having an argument about a halfpenny with a lady sending a telegram, and she said that she always understood we were well paid, and if that was true we ought not to try to make anything extra. I kept my temper, but I daresay I managed to say what I wanted to say—I generally do—and eventually she took the telegram back and decided to take a cab to Charing Cross and send it from there.
“Shilling’sworth of your best stamps,” he requested; “I want them to match my necktie.”
“Pennies or halfpennies?” I asked. You can understand I wasn’t in the mood for nonsense just then.
“Which are most fashionable just now, miss? I don’t want to look odd or conspicuous.”
“You’ll do that in any case. Kindly say what you want.”
“Perhaps I’ll try sixpennyworth of each,” he said.
I tore them off and pushed them underneath the trellis.
“Are these absolutely fresh? I may not be cooking them at once, you see. They’ll be all right, I suppose, if I keep them on ice?”
“You may as well put your head there at the same time,” I said.