"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 put it on to me.
"Why, just--_say_. When you're paying the rent, you know."
"I--I see."
I retired to the library and thought it out. I hate writing business letters. The result is a mixture of formality and chattiness which seems to me all wrong.
My first letter to the landlord went like this:--
"DEAR SIR,--I enclose cheque in payment of last quarter's rent. Our bath won't run out properly. Yours faithfully."
It is difficult to say just what is wrong with that letter, and yet it is obvious that something has happened to it. It isn't _right_. I tried again.
"DEAR SIR,--Enclosed please find cheque in payment of enclosed account.
I must ask you either to enlarge the exit to our bath or to supply an emergency door. At present my morning and evening baths are in serious danger of clashing. Yours faithfully."
My third attempt had more sting in it:--
"DEAR SIR,--Unless you do something to our bath I cannot send you enclosed cheque in payment of enclosed account. Otherwise I would have.
Yours faithfully."
At this point I whistled to Celia and laid the letters before her.
"You see what it is," I said. "I'm not quite getting the note."
"But you're so abrupt," she said. "You must remember that this is all coming quite as a surprise to him. You want to lead up to it more gradually."
"Ah, perhaps you're right. Let's try again."
I tried again, with this result:--
"DEAR SIR,--In sending you a cheque in payment of last quarter's rent I feel I must tell you how comfortable we are here. The only inconvenience--and it is indeed a trifling one, dear Sir--which we have experienced is in connection with the bathroom. Elegantly appointed and spacious as this room is, commodious as we find the actual bath itself, yet we feel that in the matter of the waste-pipe the high standard of efficiency so discernible elsewhere is sadly lacking. Were I alone I should not complain; but unfortunately there are two of us; and, for the second one, the weariness of waiting while the waters of the first bath exude drop by drop is almost more than can be borne. I speak with knowledge, for it is I who----"
I tore the letter up and turned to Celia.
"I'm a fool," I said. "I've just thought of something which will save me all this rotten business every morning."
"I'm so glad. What is it?"
"Why, of course--in future _I_ will go to the bath first."
And I do. It is a ridiculously simple solution, and I cannot think why it never occurred to me before.
A TRUNK CALL
Last Wednesday, being the anniversary of the Wednesday before, Celia gave me a present of a door-knocker. The knocker was in the shape of an elephant's head (not life-size); and by bumping the animal's trunk against his chin you could produce a small brass noise.
"It's for the library," she explained eagerly. "You're going to work there this morning, aren't you?"
"Yes, I shall be very busy," I said in my busy voice.
"Well, just put it up before you start, and then if I _have_ to interrupt you for anything important, I can knock with it. _Do_ say you love it."
"It's a dear, and so are you. Come along, let's put it up."
I got a small screw-driver, and with very little loss of blood managed to screw it into the door. Some people are born screwists, some are not.
I am one of the nots.
"It's rather sideways," said Celia doubtfully.
"Osso erry," I said.
"What?"
I took my knuckle from my mouth.
"Not so very," I repeated.
"I wish it had been straight."
"So do I; but it's too late now. You have to leave these things very largely to the screw-driver. Besides, elephants often do have their heads sideways; I've noticed it at the Zoo."
"Well, never mind. I think it's very clever of you to do it at all. Now then, you go in, and I'll knock and see if you hear."
I went in and shut the door, Celia remaining outside. After five seconds, having heard nothing, but not wishing to disappoint her, I said, "Come in," in the voice of one who has been suddenly disturbed by a loud "rat-tat."
"I haven't knocked yet," said Celia from the other side of the door.
"Why not?"
"I was admiring him. He _is_ jolly. Do come and look at him again."
I went out and looked at him again. He really gave an air to the library door.
"His face is rather dirty," said Celia. "I think he wants some brass polish and a--and a bun."
She ran off to the kitchen. I remained behind with Jumbo and had a little practice. The knock was not altogether convincing, owing to the fact that his chin was too receding for his trunk to get at it properly.
I could hear it quite easily on my own side of the door, but I felt rather doubtful whether the sound would penetrate into the room. The natural noise of the elephant--roar, bark, whistle, or whatever it is--I have never heard, but I am told it is very terrible to denizens of the jungle. Jumbo's cry would not have alarmed an ant.
Celia came back with flannels and things and washed Jumbo's face.