"You must find that card!"
he told her now, with a vague severity in his voice.
"I know the name well enough, but I want to see what
he's written. Was it his address, do you remember? The
name itself was Tavender, wasn't it? Good God! Why is it
a woman never knows where she's put anything? Even Julia
spends hours looking for button-hooks or corkscrews or
something of that sort, every day of her life! They've got
nothing in the world to do except know where things are,
right under their nose, and yet that's just what they
don't know at all!"
"Oh, I have a good few other things to do," she reminded him,
as she fumbled again inside the obscurity of the desk.
"I can put my hand on any one of four thousand books
in stock," she mildly boasted over her shoulder,
"and that's something you never learned to do. And I can
tell if a single book is missing--and I wouldn't trust
any shopman I ever knew to do that."
"Oh of course, you're an exception," he admitted,
under a sense of justice. "But I wish you'd find the card."
"I know where it is," she suddenly announced,
and forthwith closed the desk. Moving off into the
remoter recesses of the crowded interior, she returned
to the light with the bit of pasteboard in her hand.
"I'd stuck it in the little mirror over the washstand,"
she explained.
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