"What do you do in the evenings when you leave here"?
I had forgotten for a moment that Maurice had told me that she makes
bandages. She looked at me and her manner froze--I can't think why I
_felt_ she thought I had no right to question her--I say "looked at
me"--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.