My first letter to the landlord went like this:—
"Dear Sir,—I enclose cheque in payment of last quarter's rent. Our bath won't run out properly. Yours faithfully."
It is difficult to say just what is wrong with that letter, and yet it is obvious that something has happened to it. It isn't right. I tried again.
"Dear Sir,—Enclosed please find cheque in payment of enclosed account. I must ask you either to enlarge the exit to our bath or to supply an emergency door. At present my morning and evening baths are in serious danger of clashing. Yours faithfully."
My third attempt had more sting in it:—
"Dear Sir,—Unless you do something to our bath I cannot send you enclosed cheque in payment of enclosed account. Otherwise I would have. Yours faithfully."
At this point I whistled to Celia and laid the letters before her.
"You see what it is," I said. "I'm not quite getting the note."
"But you're so abrupt," she said. "You must remember that this is all coming quite as a surprise to him. You want to lead up to it more gradually."
"Ah, perhaps you're right. Let's try again."