After we have paid for our lunch in the little inn that corresponds to Wassen, the botanist and I would no doubt spend the rest of the forenoon in the discussion of various aspects and possibilities of Utopian labour laws. We should examine our remaining change, copper coins of an appearance ornamental rather than reassuring, and we should decide that after what we had gathered from the man with the blond hair, it would, on the whole, be advisable to come to the point with the labour question forthwith. At last we should draw the deep breath of resolution and arise and ask for the Public Office. We should know by this time that the labour bureau sheltered with the post-office and other public services in one building. The public office of Utopia would of course contain a few surprises for two men from terrestrial England. You imagine us entering, the botanist lagging a little behind me, and my first attempts to be offhand and commonplace in a demand for work. The office is in charge of a quick-eyed little woman of six and thirty perhaps, and she regards us with a certain keenness of scrutiny. "Where are your papers?" she asks. I think for a moment of the documents in my pocket, my passport chequered with visas and addressed in my commendation and in the name of her late Majesty by We, Robert Arthur Talbot Gascoigne Cecil, Marquess of Salisbury, Earl of Salisbury, Viscount Cranborne, Baron Cecil, and so forth, to all whom it may concern, my Carte d'Identite (useful on minor occasions) of the Touring Club de France, my green ticket to the Reading Room of the British Museum, and my Lettre d'Indication from the London and County Bank. A foolish humour prompts me to unfold all these, hand them to her and take the consequences, but I resist. "Lost," I say, briefly. "Both lost?" she asks, looking at my friend. "Both," I answer. "How?" I astonish myself by the readiness of my answer. "I fell down a snow slope and they came out of my pocket." "And exactly the same thing happened to both of you?" "No. He'd given me his to put with my own." She raised her eyebrows. "His pocket is defective," I add, a little hastily. Her manners are too Utopian for her to follow that up. She seems to reflect on procedure. "What are your numbers?" she asks, abruptly. A vision of that confounded visitors' book at the inn above comes into my mind. "Let me _see_," I say, and pat my forehead and reflect, refraining from the official eye before me. "Let me _see_." "What is yours?" she asks the botanist. "A. B.," he says, slowly, "little a, nine four seven, I _think_----" "Don't you know?" "Not exactly," says the botanist, very agreeably. "No." "Do you mean to say neither of you know your own numbers?" says the little post-mistress, with a rising note. "Yes," I say, with an engaging smile and trying to keep up a good social tone. "It's queer, isn't it? We've both forgotten." "You're joking," she suggests. "Well," I temporise.