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. 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 for permission, Suzette flounced into the small salon. I could hear her shrill little voice asking Miss Sharp to be so good as to give her an envelope--She must write an address! I watched her--Miss Sharp handed her one, and went on with her work. Suzette returned, closing the door, without temper, behind her.