On this occasion Page wrote rapidly and steadily for a few moments after Laura’s entrance into the room. Then she paused, her eyes growing wide and thoughtful. She wrote another line and paused again. Seated on the floor, her hands full of gloves, Laura was murmuring to herself.

“Those are good⁠ ⁠… and those, and the black suedes make eight.⁠ ⁠… And if I could only find the mate to this white one.⁠ ⁠… Ah, here it is. That makes nine, nine pair.”

She put the gloves aside, and turning to the stockings drew one of the silk ones over her arm, and spread out her fingers in the foot.

“Oh, dear,” she whispered, “there’s a thread started, and now it will simply run the whole length.⁠ ⁠…”

Page’s scratching paused again.

“Laura,” she asked dreamily, “Laura, how do you spell ‘abysmal’?”