"Partly because of the Kaiser, and partly because of me. History will apportion the blame."
Celia seemed prepared to anticipate History.
"Don't forget," I went on hastily, "that the money will be well spent. If I had to make a fool of myself, I would sooner have done it this year than any other. It is a privilege to pay for a war like this."
Celia looked thoughtful.
"How much does the war cost England?" she asked.
"Oh, lots. I think it mentioned the exact figures in The Times this morning. They'll be only too glad of my little contribution."
She retired in search of The Times.
The stars denote Celia at work. I can imagine her with her head on one side and the tip of her tongue just peering out to see how she is getting on, the paper in front of her a mass of figures. The ink is creeping up her pen; her forefinger is nervous and bids her hurry.
She has finished, and she comes into the room, trying to look grave. My letter to the Assessor, "Sir and Friend,—By the beard (if any) of your ancestor, I beseech you——" is abandoned, and I turn to her.