"Don't mention it," said my sister. "But I thought you'd like to know. Heaven knows when they'll go back, so I should go easy with your stiff collars and shirts."
"What, have the saws stopped working?" said Berry. "I can't bear it."
"What about my trousers?" said I. "I've only one clean pair left."
Daphne shrugged her white shoulders.
"What about my tablecloths?" she replied.
Berry addressed himself to Adèle.
"We live in pleasant times, do not we? Almost a golden age. I wonder what the trouble is now. Probably some absent-minded blanchisseuse has gone and ironed twenty socks in ten minutes instead of ten socks in twenty minutes, without thinking. And the management refuse to sack her for this grievous lapse into the slough of pre-War Industry, out of which a provident Trade Union has blackmailed her to climb."
"I've no doubt you're right," said I. "The question is, where are we going to end? It's the same everywhere. And the mere thought of Income Tax sends my temperature up."
"Ah," said Berry. "I had a quiet hour with the Book of the Words, issued by that Fun Palace, Somerset House, this afternoon. Income Tax, and How to Pay it. Commonly styled, with unconscious humour, The Income Tax Return. By the time I was through I had made out that, if I render a statement according to the printed instructions, my tax will exceed my income by one hundred and forty-four pounds. If, on the other hand, I make an incorrect return, I shall be fined fifty pounds and treble the tax payable. You really don't get a look in."
"If you say much more," groaned Jonah, "you'll spoil my appetite. When I reflect that in 1913 and a burst of piety I sent the Chancellor of the Exchequer a postal order for eight and sixpence by way of Conscience Money, I feel positively sick."