but I am never quite sure what her eyes are doing, because she
never takes off her yellow glasses--Those appear to be gazing at me at
all events.

"I make bandages."

"Aren't you dead tired after working all day with me?"

"I have not thought about it--the bandages are badly needed."

Her pencil was in her hand, and the block ready--she evidently did not
mean to go on conversing with me. This attitude of continuous diligence
on her part has begun to irritate me. She never fidgets--just works all
the time.

I'll ask Burton what he thinks of her at luncheon to-day--As I said
before, Burton knows the world.

* * * * *

"What do you think of my typist, Burton?"

He was putting a dish of make-believe before me--it is a meatless
day--my one-legged cook is an artist but he thinks me a fool because I
won't let him cheat--our want of legs makes us friendly though.

"And with a brother in the trade I could get Monsieur chickens and what
he would wish!" he expostulates each week.

"A-hem"--Burton croaked.

I repeated the question.

"The young lady works very regular."

"Yes--That is just it--a kind of a machine."

"She earns her money Sir Nicholas."

"Of course she does--I know all that--But what do you think of her?"

"Beg pardon Sir Nicholas--I don't understand?"

I felt irritated.

"Of course you do--What kind of a creature I mean--?"

"The young lady don't chatter Sir--She don't behave like bits of girls."

"You approve of her then Burton?"

"She's been here a fortnight only, Sir Nicholas, you can't tell in the
time"--and that is all I could get out of him--but I felt the verdict
when he did give it would be favourable.

Insignificant little Miss Sharp--!

What shall I do with my day--? that is the question--my rotten useless
idle day?--I have no more inspiration for my book--besides Miss Sharp
has to type the long chapter I gave her yesterday. I wonder if she knows
anything about William and Mary furniture really?--she never launches a
remark.

Her hands are very red these last days--does making bandages redden the
hands?

I wonder what colour her eyes are--one can't tell with that blurred
yellow glass--.

Suzette came in just as I wrote that; she seldom turns up in the
afternoon. She caught sight of Miss Sharp typing through the open door.

"_Tiens!_" she spit at me--"Since when?"

"I am writing a book, Suzette."

"I must see her face," and without waiting