The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable diversion, which made me get up and hesitatingly inquire, in the mingled pride and diffidence of having a purse （which I took out of my pocket）, if there were anything to pay.
'There's a sheet of letter-paper,' he returned. 'Did you ever buy a sheet of letter-paper?'
I could not remember that I ever had.
'It's dear,' he said, 'on account of the duty.Threepence. That's the way we're taxed in this country.There's nothing else, except the waiter. Never mind the ink. I lose by that.'