_Miss Minks._ Do you think I don't know better than to believe such nonsense! I shall get into _such_ a row for keeping these people waiting--and it's all _your_ fault. [_Plaintively._ _St. Y._ Poor little girl--they _do_ work you awfully hard! I'll go (_sentimentally_), but I shall keep these post-cards _always_! _Miss Redtape (reading a telegram)._ Chipperfield Lodge, Chipperfield, near Uxbridge. Can't send that, Sir. _Author of Message._ Can't send it? Nonsense! Why? _Miss R. (who suffers from a fixed idea; with deliberate precision)._ Because it is insufficiently addressed. _A. of M. (much astonished)._ Where on earth is the insufficiency? _Miss R._ "_Near_ Uxbridge"--you must alter that before I can send it. _A. of M._ That's the address I was given; I've no reason to believe it wants adding to, and I _can't_ add anything! _Miss R._ Then I can't send it. [A. of M. _remonstrates in vain, pleads, and urges._--Miss RUTINA _remains obdurate, and he has to retire, helpless_. _Miss Minks (gabbling out form handed in by anxious-looking Lady)._ "For love of Heaven do nothing of kind. Come to me at once, TINY"--you want that to go as it is? _Anx. Lady._ Yes--yes--there's no irregularity in it, is there? _Miss Minks (severely)._ You know that better than I can tell you. Limmer's? Limmer's _what_? _Anx. Lady._ Limmer's Hotel. _Miss Minks._ Then that will be another halfpenny--it will be sent off in its proper turn. _Enter a_ German Servant. _German Serv. (to Miss R.)_ I vas to gif you zis delegram, blease. _Miss R._ Very well--you can leave it. Stop--who's it addressed to? (_With much decision._) _This_ won't do! _Germ. Serv._ I vas to gif it to you. Is it not for ze Lord Meyer? _Miss R._ Lord Mayor, yes, I see that well enough, but _where_? _Germ. Serv._ I subbose vere he dwell at--I do not know how you gall it--on ze oondergroundt I zink it is. _Miss R._ Don't know any Lord Mayor who lives underground--can't take it like this. _Officious Bystander._ He means the Mansion House. I should think that would find the Lord Mayor without much difficulty, wouldn't it? _Miss R. (chillingly)._ Can't say, I'm sure. (_To Servant._) Go back and ask your Master if he means Mansion House, to say so. _Germ. S. (blankly)._ He is goned avay--he vill not be pack undil efening. _Miss R._ Then ask him, _then_. _Germ. S._ I zink it vas imbortant--eef you gould dry at ze Mansions haus, berhaps----? _Miss R._ I've no authority to put in anything beyond what's given me to send--if your Master _will_ give an insufficient address, it's not my fault, and you can tell him so. _Off. Bystander (to Miss R.)_ But hang it all! There's only one Lord Mayor, in London at all events! _Miss R._ How do I know it's for London at all? _Bystander._ I should have thought you might have _risked_ it! _Miss R._ I can't help what you would have thought, Sir; I know my own business. (_To Germ. S._) I've given you my answer.