So you tell me, Chrissie, writes Cosh to the lady in South Kensington, that you are engaged to be married on a milkman….
("Thank heaven!" murmurs Bobby piously.)
No, no, Chrissie, you need not trouble yourself. It is nothing to me.
("He's as sick as muck!" comments Bobby.)
All I did before was in friendship's name.
("Liar!")
Bobby, thankfully realising that his daily labours will be materially lightened by the withdrawal of the fickle Chrissie from the postal arena, ploughs steadily through the letters. Most of them begin in accordance with some approved formula, such as—
It is with the greatest of pleasure that I take up my pen—
It is invariably a pencil, and a blunt one at that.
Crosses are ubiquitous, and the flap of the envelope usually bears the mystic formula, S.W.A.K. This apparently means "Sealed with a kiss," which, considering that the sealing is done not by the writer but by the Censor, seems to take a good deal for granted.