he correspondence, while I gaze into the fire and
think about things.

You will say, no doubt, that this was all very well before the War, but
that in the Army a little writing would be a pleasant change after the
day's duties. Allow me to disillusion you. If, three years ago, I ever
conceived a glorious future in which my autograph might be of value to
the more promiscuous collectors, that conception has now been shattered.
Three years in the Army has absolutely spoilt the market. Even were
I revered in the year 2,000 A.D. as SHAKSPEARE is revered now, my
half-million autographs, scattered so lavishly on charge-sheets, passes,
chits, requisitions, indents and applications would keep the price at a
dead level of about ten a penny. No, I have had enough of writing in
the Army and I never want to sign my own name again. "Yours sincerely,
HERBERT ASQUITH," "Faithfully yours, J. JELLICOE"--these by all means;
but not my own.

However, I wrote a letter the other day; it was to the bank. It informed
them that I had arrived in London for a time and should be troubling
them again shortly, London being to all appearances an expensive place.
It also called attention to my new address--a small furnished flat in
which Celia and I can just turn round if we do it separately. When
it was written, there came the question of posting it. I was all for
waiting till the next morning, but Celia explained that there was
actually a letter-box on our own floor, twenty yards down the passage. I
took the letter along and dropped it into the slit.

Then a wonderful thing happened. It went

_Flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-
flipperty-flipperty-flipperty--FLOP._

I listened intently, hoping for more ... but that was all. Deeply
disappointed that it was over, but absolutely thrilled with my
discovery, I hurried back to Celia.

"Any letters you want posted?" I said in an off-hand way.

"No, thank you," she said.

"Have you written any while we've been here?"

"I don't think I've had anything to write."

"I think," I said reproachfully, "it's quite time you wrote to
your--your bank or your mother or somebody."

She looked at me and seemed to be struggling for words.

"I know exactly what you're going to say," I said, "but don't say it;
write a little letter instead."

"Well, as a matter of fact I _must_ just write a note to the laundress."

"To the laundress," I said. "Of course, just a note."