one executes a
mortgage, but you mustn't ask me who is the mortgagor and who is the
mortgagee, for, upon my sacred word of honour, I never can remember
which is which or who does what. One leaves one's money to one's beloved
wife by a legal document, or one cuts her off with a shilling and one's
second best bed, like SHAKSPEARE, you know. Really, there's nothing you
can't do with a legal document."

"How on earth," she said admiringly, "did you get to know all these
things?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "One learns as one goes along. Men have to
know more or less about the law."

"Tell me," she said; "do you feel paralysed when you see a legal
document?"

"No, not now. They used to make me tremble, but I'm up to them now. I
understand their jargon."

"And frankly," she said, "I don't."

"But that doesn't matter," I said. "You've got a man----"

"Lucky me," she said.

"You've got a man to help you. That's what he's there for--to help you
with legal documents and to have his work interrupted and all his ideas
scattered. But, bless you, he doesn't mind. He knows his place."

"Well," she said, "it's this way. A very dear friend of mine has taken a
house at the seaside, and they've sent her a document."

"A letting agreement," I said.

"I suppose so," she said; "and they want her to sign it; and they say
something about a counterpart which somebody else is to sign."

"That," I said, "is the usual way."

"What I want to know is, ought she to sign her document?"

"Is it the sort of house she wants?"

"The very house," she said. "She's been over it. Lots of rooms; nice
garden with tennis-lawn; splendid view of the sea; drainage in perfect
order; weekly rent a mere nothing. There's to be an inventory."

"Of course there is. It's always done. Does the document embody
everything she requires?"

"Yes," she said, "everything; and they've thrown in two extra days for
nothing."

"In that case," I said, "her duty is clear. She must sign it."

"Do you advise that?"

"I do," I said, "most strongly."

"Thank you so much," she said, "I'll do it at once," and before I could
interfere she had sat down at the writing-table, produced a document,
unfolded it and signed it.

"It is," she explained, "the agreement for letting Sandstone House,
Sandy Bay. They made it out in my name."

"But this," I said, seizing the paper, "is madness. It is not worth the
paper on which it is written."

"I did nothing," she said, "