She frowned at his notepad and stylo. “What in the world are you doing?”

“Taking notes as I go along. I’ve always been a great note-taker when I study.”

“So am I, but the days when Abe Lincoln made his notes on a wooden shovel with a piece of charcoal have passed.”

He looked at her, not failing to note all over again the blue eyes, the classical nose, the well-formed mouth, the golden hair cut boy-fashion. It was a healthy face, bright and open—projecting honesty, sincerity. She had told him that she had never worn any sort of cosmetic; it hadn’t hurt her complexion any. He refused to let his eyes drop to her figure. He had long since been brought to the belief that her body was the most sexually attractive that he had ever seen, and he didn’t wish to tantalize himself further. When he had mentioned marriage, she had pointed out, without cruelty, how impossible a permanent relationship between them would be: she, and her father and mother, had been selected to deal with this man from a third of a century past; to be brutally frank, they had learned to speak in what amounted to baby talk in order to communicate with him.

Now he asked, “What do you mean? This stylo isn’t exactly a piece of charcoal. So far as I understand, it’s sort of a combination pencil and pen, except you don’t use either lead or ink, and it evidently lasts forever.”

“The equivalent of lead or ink is in the paper,’ Edith explained patiently. “The advantage with this type of paper is that if you’ve mislaid your stylo, you can still write with anything pointed—even with a finger nail, if necessary. But what I meant was that your method of taking notes is antiquated.”

He kept his eyes on her, wearily waiting for more. An hour didn’t go by in the company of any of the Leetes but that they came up with something that floored him.