Behind a bolted door,
Threshing it out in full debate—"Is it a case for an Acting Rate?
Or use of Martial Law?"
At four o'clock in the afternoon,
With tea-cups clattering past,
Along the echoing Portland floor the whisper passed from door to door—
"They've settled it all at last!"
And I have the word of a lady fair
In Room Two Thousand B—
(A perfect peach, I beg to state), who typed the letter in triplicate