This is true. Jane is an excellent cook, and well worth the £75 a year or whatever it is we pay her; but arithmetic gives her a headache. When Celia has finished dividing £75 by twelve, Jane is in a state of complete nervous exhaustion, and is only too thankful to take the nine-and-sixpence that Celia hands over to her, without asking any questions. Indeed, anything that the Government wished deducted from Jane's wages we could deduct with a minimum of friction—from income-tax to a dog-licence. A threepenny insurance would be child's play.
Three weeks later I said to Celia—
"Has an inspector been to see Jane's card yet?"
"Jane's card?" she asked blankly.
"The insurance card with the pretty stamps on."
"No.... No.... Luckily."
"You mean——"
"I was going to see about it to-morrow," said Celia.
I got up and paced the floor. "Really," I murmured, "really." I tried the various chairs in the room, and finally went and stood with my back to the fire-place. In short, I behaved like a justly incensed master-of-the-house.
"You know what happens," I said, when I was calm again, "if we neglect this duty which Parliament has laid upon us?"