"Really," I said, "you drive me to despair. Can't you see that a man may remember the _existence_ of a letter without remembering all its petty details? For instance, I know there's a Sultan of Morocco, but I don't know what he's like, or what his name is, or how he's dressed, or what his exact colour is. Still, there he is, you know." "Where?" "Oh, I don't know. Morocco, I suppose, would find him." "Then all you've got to do is to write him a respectful letter, saying that you can't accept his Majesty's kind invitation to the small and early dance at the Palace." "I am not," I said, "in a humour for frivolity. I want to write a letter." "And I," she said proudly, "am doing my best to help you." "I put it down on this writing-table, and one of you has moved it. Possibly it looked untidy, and one of you has tidied it--you yourself, for choice. In that case I shall never, never find it. To think that there is some one in the world who is eagerly expecting a letter from me, who is watching for the postman as he comes on his rounds, who is constantly disappointed, who lapses finally into a sullen acquiescence, who considers me unbusinesslike--and all because you saw a letter which didn't please you, and so you tidied it away. After all, it's my writing-table, and in future I won't have anyone at it except myself." "Don't be harsh," she said. "How do you know any of us have been at what you call your table?" "How do I know?" I said bitterly. "Look at these neat little packets of papers all put carefully one on top of the other. Look at my pens, look at my bills, look at my cheque-book, look at my notepaper and envelopes--I mean, don't look at them, because if you did you wouldn't see them. They're tucked away out of sight, and all that is left to me is a blotting pad, on which you have done several interesting money addition sums, and Peggy has drawn four Red Indians in crayons, and Helen has tentatively written in ink the words 'alright' and 'allright.' Oh yes, some of you have invaded my private domain and sat at my table, and have first scattered and then re-asserted my papers." At this moment John entered the room, came and stood beside me, and abstracted from the table a pencil and a sheet of foolscap. "There," I said, "you can see the result of your dreadful example. Even this innocent child has learnt to pilfer my writing materials." "John," said his mother, "would you like to search your father?" "What's 'search'?" said John. "Feel in his coat pockets and see if you can find a letter." John was quite willing. He inserted a pudgy hand into one pocket after another, and finally extracted a rather crumpled letter. "Hurrah!" I said. "He's got it." "What is it?" she said. "It is a courteous communication from Messrs. Wilfer and Wontner, highly commending the virtues of their renowned Hygeia tabloids, two to be taken daily after dinner."