This comes as a surprise to you, but it is no surprise to me. The thing has been going on for months. It is months ago that I first spoke to Celia about it. "It's Jane," she said. "She always puts it like that when she's been dusting." "Yes, but what for? Just to catch the eye?" "I suppose because you always stand glasses upside down when you've cleaned them--to keep the dust out." "But if she'd only think a moment she'd see that I don't drink out of this, and that glasses don't have 'First Prize, won by ----'" "Jane isn't here to think, she's here to work." This seemed to be a distinction drawn between Jane and me. "You see what I mean," I said, "don't you? It's very difficult to read the cup upside down. A stranger mightn't know who--er--who had won it." "But don't you always turn it back again? I do, if ever I see it." "Yes, but--but---- Oh, well, it doesn't matter." I went back to the library. It was difficult to explain why I minded; because, after all, to fill a pipe, light it and sit down to work every morning is very little less trouble than to turn a cup round, fill a pipe, light it and sit down to work every morning. Anything regular soon gets taken for granted. And yet I was annoyed. I think it was the _silliness_ of standing a First Prize upside down which annoyed me. That and the apparent difficulty of getting into communication with Jane about it. For it was difficult. One day I went very humbly to Celia and said-- "I know I'm a baby about it. Forgive me. But it's getting on my mind. Do tell Jane about the cup." "It's awfully hard," she said, after a little thought. "You see, it's such a very, very small thing that it never seems quite the right moment for it. And if, after I'd told her, she said 'What?' I couldn't possibly say it again." "You must be very articulate the first time. Lead the conversation slowly round to long-jumping or the difficulty of reading on your head, and then casually but articulately----" "Well, we'll see," said Celia. "Of course, if I ever caught her doing it, I'd tell her. Perhaps I shall." Well, we saw. We saw that the thing still went on. The direct approach to Jane was evidently impossible. So I tried sarcasm. Sarcasm, directed into the blue in the hope of hitting the person you want, may not be effective, but it does relieve the feelings. I had a thoroughly sarcastic morning all to myself. My deadly irony took the form of turning _everything_ in the library upside-down. The cup was in position already; I turned up two pewter mugs (third prizes in Consolation Races), the flower bowls, the cigarette box, the lamp, a stool, half-a-dozen pictures, two photographs and the mahogany clock. They all stood on their heads and sneered at Jane. "Why don't you do the thing properly while you're about it?" they said to her. I felt extremely well after I had finished. Celia stood in the door and gurgled to herself. "You baby," she smiled.