"Got," she pointed out.
I inspected it carefully. Coming fresh to the idea Margery had
treated it more spontaneously than the other. But it was distinctly
a "got." One of the gots.
"Have you any more words?" she asked, holding tight to the pencil.
"You've about exhausted me, Margery."
"What was that one you said just now? The one you said you wouldn't
say again?"
"Oh, you mean 'inveigle'?" I said, pronouncing it differently this
time.
"Yes; write that for me."
"It hardly ever comes in. Only when you are writing to your
solicitor."
"What's 'solicitor'?"
"He's the gentleman who takes the money. He's ALWAYS coming in."
"Then write 'solicitor.'"
I took the pencil (it was my turn for it) and wrote SOLICITOR. Then
I read it out slowly to Margery, spelt it to her three times very
carefully, and wrote SOLICITOR again. Then I said it thoughtfully to
myself half a dozen times--"Solicitor." Then I looked at it
wonderingly.
"I am not sure now," I said, "that there is such a word."
"Why?"
"I thought there was when I began, but now I don't think there can
be. 'Solicitor'--it seems so silly."
"Let me write it," said Margery, eagerly taking the paper and
pencil, "and see if it looks silly."
She retired, and--as well as she could for her excitement--copied
the word down underneath. The combined effort then read as
follows:--