nchisseuse_ has
gone and ironed twenty socks in ten minutes instead of ten socks in
twenty minutes, without thinking. And the management refuse to sack her
for this grievous lapse into the slough of pre-War Industry, out of
which a provident Trade Union has blackmailed her to climb."

"I've no doubt you're right," said I. "The question is, where are we
going to end? It's the same everywhere. And the mere thought of Income
Tax sends my temperature up."

"Ah," said Berry. "I had a quiet hour with the Book of the Words, issued
by that Fun Palace, Somerset House, this afternoon. _Income Tax, and How
to Pay it._ Commonly styled, with unconscious humour, The Income Tax
Return. By the time I was through I had made out that, if I render a
statement according to the printed instructions, my tax will exceed my
income by one hundred and forty-four pounds. If, on the other hand, I
make an incorrect return, I shall be fined fifty pounds and treble the
tax payable. You really don't get a look in."

"If you say much more," groaned Jonah, "you'll spoil my appetite. When I
reflect that in 1913 and a burst of piety I sent the Chancellor of the
Exchequer a postal order for eight and sixpence by way of Conscience
Money, I feel positively sick."

"Not piety," corrected my brother-in-law. "Drink. I remember you had
some very bad goes about then."

"What a terrible memory you have!" said Adele. "I feel quite uneasy."

"Fear not, sweet one," was the reply. "Before I retail your
indiscretions I shall send you a list of them, with the price of
omission clearly marked against each in red ink. The writing will be all
blurred with my tears." Here Adele declined a second vegetable. "There,
now. I've gone and frightened you. And marrow's wonderful for the spine.
Affords instant relief. And you needn't eat the seeds. Spit them over
your left shoulder. That'll bring you luck."

There was an outraged clamour of feminine protest.

"I won't have it," said Daphne. "Disgusting brute!"

"And that," said Jonah, "is the sodden mountebank who dares to cast a
stone into the limpid pool of my character. That is the overfed
sluggard----"

"Take this down, somebody," said Berry. "The words'll scorch up the
paper, but never mind. Record the blasphemy. Capital 'M' for
'mountebank.' 'Sluggard' with an 'H.' And I'm not overfed."

"You're getting fatter every day," said Jill, gurgling.

"That's right," said my brother-in-law. "Bay the old lion. And bring