"We must really do something about the bath," said Celia.
"We must," I agreed.
At present what we do is this. Punctually at six-thirty or nine, orwhenever it is, Celia goes in to make herself clean and beautiful forthe new day, while I amuse myself with a razor. After a quarter of anhour or so she gives a whistle to imply that the bathroom is now vacant,and I give another one to indicate that I have only cut myself once. Ithen go hopefully in and find that the bath is half full of water;whereupon I go back to my room and engage in Dr. Hugh de Selincourt'sphysical exercises for the middle-aged. After these are over I takeanother look at the bath, discover that it is now three-eighths full,and return to my room and busy myself with Dr. Archibald Marshall'smental drill for busy men. By the time I have committed three Odes ofHorace to memory, it may be low tide or it may not; if not, I sit on theedge of the bath with the daily paper and read about the lateststrike--my mind occupied equally with wondering when the water is goingout and when the bricklayers are. And the thought that Celia is now inthe dining-room eating more than her share of the toast does not consoleme in the least.
"Yes," I said, "it's absurd to go on like this. You had better see aboutit to-day, Celia."
"I don't think--I mean, I think--you know, it's really _your_ turn to dosomething for the bathroom."
"What do you mean, _my_ turn? Didn't I buy the glass shelves for it?You'd never even heard of glass shelves."
"Well, who put them up after they'd been lying about for a month?" saidCelia. "I did."
"And who bumped his head against them the next day? I did."
"Yes, but that wasn't really a _useful_ thing to do. It's your turn tobe useful."
"Celia, this is mutiny. All household matters are supposed to be lookedafter by you. I do the brain work; I earn the money; I cannot bebothered with these little domestic worries. I have said so before."
"I sort of thought you had."
You know, I am afraid that is true.
"After all," she went on, "the drinks are in your department."
"Hock, perhaps," I said; "soapy water, no. There is a difference."
"Not very much," said Celia.
By the end of another week I was getting seriously alarmed. I began tofear that unless I watched it very carefully I should be improvingmyself too much.
"While the water was running out this morning," I said to Celia, as Istarted my breakfast just about lunch-time, "I got _Paradise Lost_ offby heart, and made five hundred and ninety-six revolutions with the backpaws. And then it was time to shave myself again. What a life for a busyman!"
"I don't know if you know that it's no----"
"Begin again," I said.
"--that it's no good waiting for the last inch or two to go out byitself. Because it won't. You have to--to _hoosh_ it out."
"I do. And I sit on the taps looking like a full moon and try to draw itout. But it's no good. We had a neap tide to-day and I had to hoosh fourinches. Jolly."
Celia gave a sigh of resignation.
"All right," she said, "I'll go to the plumber to-day."
"Not the plumber," I begged. "On the contrary. The plumber is the manwho _stops_ the leaks. What we really want is an unplumber."
We fell into silence again.
"But how silly we are!" cried Celia suddenly. "Of course!"
"What's the matter now?"
"The bath is the _landlord's_ business! Write and tell him."
"But--but what shall I say?" Somehow I knew Celia would put it on to me.
"Why, just--_say_. When you're paying the rent, you know."
"I--I see."
I retired to the library and thought it out. I hate writing businessletters. The result is a mixture of formality and chattiness which seemsto me all wrong.
My first letter to the landlord went like this:--
"DEAR SIR,--I enclose cheque in payment of last quarter's rent. Our bathwon't run out properly. Yours faithfully."
It is difficult to say just what is wrong with that letter, and yet itis obvious that something has happened to it. It isn't _right_. I triedagain.
"DEAR SIR,--Enclosed please find cheque in payment of enclosed account.I must ask you either to enlarge the exit to our bath or to supply anemergency door. At present my morning and evening baths are in seriousdanger of clashing. Yours faithfully."
My third attempt had more sting in it:--
"DEAR SIR,--Unless you do something to our bath I cannot send youenclosed cheque in payment of enclosed account. Otherwise I would have.Yours faithfully."
At this point I whistled to Celia and laid the letters before her.
"You see what it is," I said. "I'm not quite getting the note."
"But you're so abrupt," she said. "You must remember that this is allcoming quite as a surprise to him. You want to lead up to it moregradually."
"Ah, perhaps you're right. Let's try again."
I tried again, with this result:--
"DEAR SIR,--In sending you a cheque in payment of last quarter's rent Ifeel I must tell you how comfortable we are here. The onlyinconvenience--and it is indeed a trifling one, dear Sir--which we haveexperienced is in connection with the bathroom. Elegantly appointed andspacious as this room is, commodious as we find the actual bath itself,yet we feel that in the matter of the waste-pipe the high standard ofefficiency so discernible elsewhere is sadly lacking. Were I alone Ishould not complain; but unfortunately there are two of us; and, for thesecond one, the weariness of waiting while the waters of the first bathexude drop by drop is almost more than can be borne. I speak withknowledge, for it is I who----"
I tore the letter up and turned to Celia.
"I'm a fool," I said. "I've just thought of something which will save meall this rotten business every morning."
"I'm so glad. What is it?"
"Why, of course--in future _I_ will go to the bath first."
And I do. It is a ridiculously simple solution, and I cannot think whyit never occurred to me before.