When it was written I insisted on her coming with me to post it. With
great generosity I allowed her to place it in the slit. A delightful
thing happened. It went

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

Right down to the letter-box in the hall. Two flipperties a floor. (A
simple calculation shows that we are perched on the fifth floor. I am
glad now that we live so high. It must be very dull to be on the fourth
floor with only eight flipperties, unbearable to be on the first with
only two.)

"_O-oh!_ How _fas_-cinating!" said Celia.

"Now don't you think you ought to write to your mother?"

"Oh, I _must_."

She wrote. We posted it. It went

_Flipperty-flipperty_----However, you know all about that now.

Since this great discovery of mine, life has been a more pleasurable
business. We feel now that there are romantic possibilities about
letters setting forth on their journey from our floor. To start life
with so many flipperties might lead to anything. Each time that we send
a letter off we listen in a tremble of excitement for the final FLOP,
and when it comes I think we both feel vaguely that we are still
waiting for something. We are waiting to hear some magic letter go
_flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty_ ... and behold! there is
no FLOP ... and still it goes on--_flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-
flipperty_--growing fainter in the distance ... until it arrives at
some wonderland of its own. One day it must happen so. For we cannot
listen always for that FLOP, and hear it always; nothing in this world
is as inevitable as that. One day we shall look at each other with awe
in our faces and say, "But it's still flipperting!" and from that time
forward the Hill of Campden will be a place holy and enchanted. Perhaps
on Midsummer Eve--

At any rate I am sure that it is the only way in which to post a letter
to Father Christmas.

Well, what I want to say is this: if I have been a bad correspondent in
the past I am a good one now; and Celia, who was always a good one, is
a better one. It takes at least ten letters a day to satisfy us, and we
prefer to catch ten different posts. With the ten in your hand together
there is always a temptation to waste them in one wild rush of
flipperties, all catching each other up. It would be a great moment, but
I do not think we can afford it yet; we must wait until we get even more
practised at letter-wr