lady of my acquaintance whom, swerving aside from the lead given us by her god-parents thirty years ago, we will call Agatha.
"You've surely not buying blotting-paper here?" she exclaimed in an agitated whisper, and she seemed so genuinely concerned that I stayed my hand.
"Let me take you to Winks and Pinks," she said as soon as we were out of the building: "they've got such lovely shades of blotting-paper—pearl and heliotrope and momie and crushed"
"But I want ordinary white blotting-paper," I said.
"Never mind. They know me at Winks and Pinks," she replied inconsequently. Agatha apparently has an idea that blotting-paper is only sold in small quantities to persons of known reputation, who may be trusted not to put it to dangerous or improper uses. After walking some two hundred yards she began to feel that her tea was of more immediate importance than my blotting-paper.
"What do you want blotting-paper for?" she asked suddenly. I explained patiently.
"I use it to dry up the ink of wet manuscript without smudging the writing.
