Eliza/The Ink

THE INKTHE ink-pot contained a shallow sediment, with short hairs, grit, and a little moisture in it. It came out on the pen in chunks. When I had spoiled the second postcard, Eliza said I was not to talk like that.
"Very well, then," I said, "why don't you have the ink-pot refilled? I'm not made of postcards, and I hate waste."
She replied that anybody would think I was made of something to hear me talk. I thought I had never heard a poorer retort, and told her so. I did not stay to argue it further, as I had to be off to the city. On my return I found the ink-pot full. "This," I thought to myself, "is very nice of Eliza." I had a letter I wanted to write, and sat down to it.
I wrote one word, and it came out a delicate ​pale gray. I called Eliza at once. I was never quieter in my manner, and it was absurd of her to say that I needn't howl the house down.
"We will not discuss that," I replied. "Just now I sat down to write a letter—"
"What do you want to write letters for now? You might just as well have done them at the office."
I shrugged my shoulders in a Continental manner. "You are probably not aware that I was writing to your own mother. She has so few pleasures. If you do n

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