re are upwards of a
thousand conundrums in the book. I have only read twelve, but I found
them all exceedingly amusing, and, at the same time, perfectly
refined."

"Well, I don't see the good of them."

"They are an intellectual exercise, if you try to guess the right
answer."

"I don't believe anybody ever did or ever will guess the right answer."

"If I had time," I said, "I believe I could generally think out a witty
answer myself. I do not want to boast, but I believe so."

"Very well, then," said Eliza, snatching up the book and opening it at
random, "here's one for you. 'If a lady slipped down the steps of St.
Paul's Cathedral, what would she say?' Give me the answer to that."

"I will try to," I replied.

Now, just at the moment when Eliza put the question I felt that I had
really got the answer, and then it seemed to pass away from me. Later
in the evening I was certainly on the right track, when Eliza dropped
her scissors, and the noise again put me off. I spent a very poor
night; the answer kept sort of coming and going. Just as I was dropping
off to sleep, I seemed to have thought of the answer, and then I would
wake up to be sure of it, and find it had slipped me again.

As I was leaving the office, in the evening, after thinking till my
head ached without arriving at any result, I put the question to one of
our clerks. I thought he might possibly know.

"No," he said, "I don't know what a lady would say if she slipped down
those steps. I could make a fair guess at what a man would say, if
that's any good to you." Of course it was not.

So, on my return home, I told Eliza that I had not had enough time to
spare to think of the answer, and I should be glad to know where she
had put the book.

"Oh, I sent that to mother!" she said. "I thought you wanted it sent."

"You might have waited until you knew whether I had finished with it.
But, however, what was the answer to that silly riddle?"

"The one about St. Paul's Cathedral? That wasn't in the book at all. I
made up the question out of my own head for fun."

"Then," I replied, "all I can say is, that your idea of fun is not
mine. It seems to me to be acting a lie. It was not a conundrum at
all."

"It would have been if you could have thought of an answer."

"Say no more," I replied, coldly. "I prefer to drop the subject."

THE INK

The ink-pot contained a shallow sediment, with short hairs, grit, and a
little moisture in it. It