“What—who?” He picked the sheet up. “’Lisbeth, you didn’t do this, surely?”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “That’s the sample. Will you take me on?”

He jumped up.

“My darling, how wonderful of you! When did you learn?”

“Months ago. Mr. Hengist gave me a Remington. I’ve been taking in typing.”

That didn’t please Stephen. His chin went up aggressively.

“What for?”

“Oh—amusement!” she said, watching him.

“Were you paid for it?”

“Of course I was.”

He looked down at her sternly; she thought, He’s being masterful.

“You needed the money?”

“Y-es.”

“So sooner than touch mine you—took in typing!”

“I’m very sorry,” she said meekly. “I don’t see why you should mind, though.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, of course I mind! It—it galls me horribly!”

She hung her head, but contrived still to watch his face.

“Well, I won’t do it any more if you’d rather I didn’t,” she said dutifully.

“Certainly you will do no more,” Stephen said severely. “I know now why you look so run down and tired.”

She suppressed a smile.

“That was ’flu, Stephen.”

“Due to pounding away at a typewriter,” he said.

“But Stephen, can’t I do your typing?” she asked. “I was looking forward to that so much.”

“No, darling,” Stephen answered firmly. “It’s not fit for you.”

Elizabeth was beginning to enjoy herself; this was an interesting game. She tried the effect of a sigh, quite a small one.

“I thought—it would give me such an interest in your work,” she murmured. “But perhaps I don’t type well enough?”

“It’s not that a bit!” he said quickly. “You type beautifully! How ever you could unravel my writing beats me!”

She went closer to him.

“I loved doing it, Stephen. If I promise not to tire myself, won’t you let me?”

He was weakening, she could see that. He looked at her uncertainly.

“You’d get so sick of it, ’Lisbeth.”

“I’ll stop if I do. But I like typing.”

“Well, if I let you, it must only be my stuff. I won’t have you slaving over other people’s work.”

“Oh no, Stephen, of course not!”

“I’ll let you do it as long as you don’t overtire yourself,” Stephen said, with the air of one making a great concession.

“Thank you, Stephen,” Elizabeth said demurely.

That incident, trivial though it was, seemed to make a difference to her. She had discovered how to manage Stephen; she was secretly elated; she had been wily, and had gained her point.

Stephen was late for lunch next day. His worried apology touched her; almost she felt maternal. She said, It doesn’t matter, and for the first time in her life really felt that it didn’t.