years ago, we will call Agatha.

"You're 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. Probably a Chinese invention of the second century before
Christ, but I'm not sure. The only other use for it that I can
think of is to roll it into a ball for a kitten to play with."

"But you haven't got a kitten," said Agatha, with a feminine desire
for stating the entire truth on most occasions.