Yes, I should love to come down and play cricket for Castle Bumpbrook, and many thanks for asking me. I don't make runs nowadays, Charles, but if you feel that the mere presence of a gentleman from Lunnon would inspire and, as it were, give tone to the side, then I am at your service. You do say "Lunnon" in the country, don't you, when you mean London? And you say "bain't" too. How jolly! "I bain't a bowler, zur"--and you pronounce the "b-o-w" as if it were a curtsey and not a cravat. "Put Oi----" It's no good. I can't keep it up. Put me in last and I'll make 3 not out, and that will bring me top of the averages. (If you divide 3 by 0 you get an awful lot, you know.) You have an average bat, I suppose? I like them rather light--or I would take the money, whichever would be more convenient. I have just written myself a letter, pleasantly standoffish, but not haughty. The reason is that I have my doubts about the post office, so I am giving them a test. My address, as you have discovered, is an awkward one. There are nine distinct ways of getting it wrong, and most people try two or three of them. But the letters do get here eventually, after (I expect) a good deal of sickness on the part of the postman. What I am beginning to wonder now is whether a letter with the _right_ address would arrive; I fancy that the chief of the detective department would suspect a trap, and send it somewhere else; and, as I am certain that I have never received one or two letters which I ought to have had, I am writing to myself to see. It is a great art, that of writing nicely to yourself; to say enough, yet not too much. When John was getting engaged, he wrote to himself every day. Before he started doing this he used to spend hours sitting and wondering whether the postman had been. The few letters he had had from her came by the eight-thirty post. At eight-fifteen he began to look out; nothing happened. An awful quarter of an hour followed. Eight-thirty--no postman's knock; never mind, perhaps he's late. Eight-thirty-five--well, it _is_ rather a busy time; besides he may have fallen down. Eight-forty--one ray of light left; he did come once, you remember, at eight-forty-two. Eight-forty-five--despair. A half-an-hour's agony, you observe, Charles. Then he thought of writing to himself in time for that delivery. The result was that he remained quite calm, knowing that the postman was bound to come. "Ah, there he is. Will there be a letter from her? Yes--no." You see? Your heart in your mouth for five seconds only. I never saw any of these letters. But I should say that at the beginning they were sympathetic--"Buck up, it's all right"--or hopeful--"Never mind, she'll write to-morrow"; later on they would become cynical--"Done in the eye again. What on earth do you expect?"; and, finally, I expect, insulting--"You silly ass; chuck it." ... Then, of course, she wrote.