taken for granted. And yet I was annoyed. I think it was the
_silliness_ of standing a First Prize upside down which annoyed me. That
and the apparent difficulty of getting into communication with Jane
about it.

For it was difficult. One day I went very humbly to Celia and said--

"I know I'm a baby about it. Forgive me. But it's getting on my mind. Do
tell Jane about the cup."

"It's awfully hard," she said, after a little thought. "You see, it's
such a very, very small thing that it never seems quite the right moment
for it. And if, after I'd told her, she said 'What?' I couldn't possibly
say it again."

"You must be very articulate the first time. Lead the conversation
slowly round to long-jumping or the difficulty of reading on your head,
and then casually but articulately----"

"Well, we'll see," said Celia. "Of course, if I ever caught her doing
it, I'd tell her. Perhaps I shall."

Well, we saw. We saw that the thing still went on. The direct approach
to Jane was evidently impossible. So I tried sarcasm.

Sarcasm, directed into the blue in the hope of hitting the person you
want, may not be effective, but it does relieve the feelings. I had a
thoroughly sarcastic morning all to myself. My deadly irony took the
form of turning _everything_ in the library upside-down. The cup was in
position already; I turned up two pewter mugs (third prizes in
Consolation Races), the flower bowls, the cigarette box, the lamp, a
stool, half-a-dozen pictures, two photographs and the mahogany clock.
They all stood on their heads and sneered at Jane. "Why don't you do the
thing properly while you're about it?" they said to her. I felt
extremely well after I had finished.

Celia stood in the door and gurgled to herself.

"You baby," she smiled.

"On the contrary," I said, "I have made a dignified yet subtle protest.
You wouldn't move in the matter so I had to do something. I flatter
myself that a sense of her past silliness will rush over Jane like a
flood when she comes in here to-morrow morning."

"If Jane's flooded at all," said Celia, "it will be with the idea that
the master's mad. But I don't think she'll notice it particularly."

Next morning everything was right side up again--except the cup.

"It's no good," I told Celia; "she is obviously determined. Perhaps it
means more than we think to her to have that cup upside-down. Its
beauty, the memories it brings back, the symbolism of it, these things
touch some hi