"Bilchester Abbey School, Bilchester, Hants. That's a new name to me. Throw over that directory, Philip: on the third shelf, to your right. Let me see: Founded, 1897. Governing Body: the Lord Bishop of——quite so: Head Mistress, Miss——yes, yes: Assistant Mistresses—never mind them: Gravel soil; Gymnasium; Altitude, four hundred—Ah, here we are:—Number of Pupils, two hundred and seventy-three! Great Heavens! This must be stopped. Get the typewriter quickly, Philip, and take down something!
Mr. Julius Mablethorpe regrets deeply that he is unable to accede to the request of Mesdames Briggs and Waddell for his autograph. Mr. Mablethorpe had the misfortune some years ago to be deprived of the use of his hands (owing to an explosive fountain-pen), and now finds himself compelled to dictate all his work into a gramophone. Mr. Mablethorpe is seventy-eight years of age, and is still in possession of a fair proportion of his faculties. His eyes used to be grey, as Miss Briggs (or was it Miss Waddell?) surmises; but he now possesses only one, having lost the other while on a visit to a Dorcas Society, together with a portion of his scalp. He has been married four times, and possesses sixty-nine grandchildren, reckoning thirteen to the dozen. For further details see "Who's Who."
"That ought to choke them off," observed Mr. Mablethorpe with childish satisfaction, as he finished dictating this outrageous document. "Now, what about this grubby epistle here? It does not smell so vilely as the first, but I bet it is from another of the tribe."
He began to read:—
Dear Mr. Mablethorpe
All your books are in our House Library—
He broke off.
"I tell you what it is, Philip," he said. "I shall have to write a really shocking novel—something unspeakably awful. Then I shall be banned from girls' schools for ever. My circulation will probably go down by ninety per cent, but it will be well worth it.
My name is Elsie Hope, and I love them all. I have no father or mother, and I have just read a story of yours about a little girl who had no father or mother either. It made me cry.
"Snivelling brat!" commented the unfeeling author.
I have not been here very long, and I do not know many of the girls yet, so your books make splendid company. I thought I would like to tell you. Good-bye.