hen the water is going
out and when the bricklayers are. And the thought that Celia is now in
the dining-room eating more than her share of the toast does not console
me in the least.

"Yes," I said, "it's absurd to go on like this. You had better see about
it to-day, Celia."

"I don't think--I mean, I think--you know, it's really _your_ turn to do
something for the bathroom."

"What do you mean, _my_ turn? Didn't I buy the glass shelves for it?
You'd never even heard of glass shelves."

"Well, who put them up after they'd been lying about for a month?" said
Celia. "I did."

"And who bumped his head against them the next day? I did."

"Yes, but that wasn't really a _useful_ thing to do. It's your turn to
be useful."

"Celia, this is mutiny. All household matters are supposed to be looked
after by you. I do the brain work; I earn the money; I cannot be
bothered with these little domestic worries. I have said so before."

"I sort of thought you had."

You know, I am afraid that is true.

"After all," she went on, "the drinks are in your department."

"Hock, perhaps," I said; "soapy water, no. There is a difference."

"Not very much," said Celia.

By the end of another week I was getting seriously alarmed. I began to
fear that unless I watched it very carefully I should be improving
myself too much.

"While the water was running out this morning," I said to Celia, as I
started my breakfast just about lunch-time, "I got _Paradise Lost_ off
by heart, and made five hundred and ninety-six revolutions with the back
paws. And then it was time to shave myself again. What a life for a busy
man!"

"I don't know if you know that it's no----"

"Begin again," I said.

"--that it's no good waiting for the last inch or two to go out by
itself. Because it won't. You have to--to _hoosh_ it out."

"I do. And I sit on the taps looking like a full moon and try to draw it
out. But it's no good. We had a neap tide to-day and I had to hoosh four
inches. Jolly."

Celia gave a sigh of resignation.

"All right," she said, "I'll go to the plumber to-day."

"Not the plumber," I begged. "On the contrary. The plumber is the man
who _stops_ the leaks. What we really want is an unplumber."

We fell into silence again.

"But how silly we are!" cried Celia suddenly. "Of course!"

"What's the matter now?"

"The bath is the _landlord's_ business! Write and tell him."

"But--but what shall I say?" Somehow I knew Celia would