stood with my back
to the fire-place. In short, I behaved like a justly incensed
master-of-the-house.

"You know what happens," I said, when I was calm again, "if we neglect
this duty which Parliament has laid upon us?"

"No."

"We go to prison. At least, one of us does. I'm not quite sure which."

"I hope it's you," said Celia.

"As a matter of fact I believe it is. However, we shall know when the
inspector comes round."

"If it's you," she went on, "I shall send you in a file, with which you
can cut through your chains and escape. It will be concealed in a loaf
of bread, so that your gaolers shan't suspect."

"Probably I shouldn't suspect either, until I had bitten on it suddenly.
Perhaps you'd better not bother. It would be simpler if you got Jane's
card to-morrow instead."

"But of course I will. That is to say, I'll tell Jane to get it herself.
It's her cinema evening out."

Once a week Jane leaves us and goes to a cinema. Her life is full of
variety.

Ten days elapsed, and then one evening I said---- At least I didn't.
Before I could get it out Celia interrupted:

"No, not yet. You see, there's been a hitch."

I curbed my anger and spoke calmly.

"What sort of a hitch?"

"Well, Jane forgot last Wednesday, and I forgot to remind her this
Wednesday. But _next_ Wednesday----"

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

"Well, if you'll tell me what to do I'll do it."

"Well--er--you just--you--I mean--well, they'll tell you at the
post-office."

"That's exactly how I keep explaining it to Jane," said Celia.

I looked at her mournfully.

"What shall we do?" I asked. "I feel quite hopeless about it. It seems
too late now to do anything with Jane. Let's get a new staff and begin
again properly."

"Lose Jane?" cried Celia. "I'd sooner go to prison--I mean I'd sooner
_you_ went to prison. Why can't you be a man and do something?"

Celia doesn't seem to realize that I married her with the sole idea of
getting free of all this sort of bother. As it is, I nearly die once a
year in the attempt to fill up my income-tax form. Any traffic in
insurance cards would, my doctor says, be absolutely fatal.

However, something had to be done. Last week I went into a neighbouring
post-office in order to send a telegram. The post-office is an annexe of
the grocer's where the sardines come from on Jane's cinema evening.
Having sent the telegram, I took a sudden desperate resolve. I--I
myself--would do something.

"