hen I had finished, took the sheet from me and showed it to Dr Graves. They frowned.
''You have written Susan,'' said Dr Christie. ''Why is that?''
''It is my name.''
''You have written badly. Did you do so on purpose? Here.'' He gave me the paper back. ''Write me out a line, as I requested first.''
''I can''t. I can''t!''
''Yes, you can. Write a single word, then. Write me this. Write: speckle.''
I shook my head.
''Come, come,'' he said, ''this word is not difficult. And you know the first letter of it, we have seen you write that already.''
Again, I hesitated. And then, because he watched so closely— and because, beyond him, Dr Graves and Nurse Spiller and Nurse Bacon, and even Mrs Price and Miss Wilson, also tilted their heads to see me do it—I wrote an S. Then I made a hazard at the other letters. The word went on and on, and grew larger as I wrote.
''You still press hard,'' Dr Christie said.
''Do I?''
''You know you do. And your letters are muddled, and very ill-formed. What letter is this? It is one of your own imagining, I think. Now, am I to understand that your uncle—a scholar, I believe?—would countenance work like this, from his assistant?''
Here was my moment. I quivered right through. Then I held Dr Christie''s gaze and said, as steadily as I could:
''I haven''t an uncle to my name. You mean old Mr Lilly. I dare say his niece Maud writes neatly enough; but you see, I ain''t her.''