SUZANNE'S BANKING ACCOUNT.
"These want paying," said Suzanne as she bounced into my nominally sacred den at a strictly prohibited hour. Therewith she thrust a dossier of tradesmen's bills into my feebly-resisting hands, and bang went an idea I had been tenderly nursing since breakfast.
"But I can't spend the rest of the morning writing cheques," I protested. "I'm engaged just now on a most important article."
"With your eyes shut," commented Suzanne, stooping to a grossly unfair insinuation. "I must tell Cook to make the breakfast coffee stronger in future; then you might manage to—"
"Look here, Suzanne, you've been married to me long enough to know my methods of work. I can't begin an article until I've got the whole thing shaped in my mind, and to do that I must shut out everything else."
"Especially your wife, I suppose. Well, I won't stay. You've got all the bills there; but don't start writing the cheques till you've got them well shaped in your mind."
"But what on earth does all this mass of accounting literature represent?" I asked.
"For the benefit of new readers a synopsis is attached," said Suzanne. "They're mostly small items; for instance, Madame Pillby—she's the little dressmaker round the corner, you know; though why an all-British spinster should call herself 'Madame' I can't imagine—five-and-fourpence-ha'penny."
"Suzanne; I will not write a cheque for five-and-fourpence-ha'penny! Are they all like that?"
"The biggest is two guineas; that's what it cost to have my last dance-hat altered to your specifications, because you said it tickled your nose. There are seventeen of them in all—bills, not hats; total, twelve pounds fifteen shillings and elevenpence three farthings, pa-pa."