"Well, I've been to see three of them now," she said. "The first is at
Shepherd's Bush--"
"What pipes!" I ejaculated. "What music! What wild ecstasy!"
"--four hundred yards from the Central Tube, to be exact; and there's a
large roller skating-rink next door. You never rolled, did you? Three
sessions daily, the advertisement says."
"I'm afraid I sat oftener than that when I rolled," I confessed. "'Another
transport split,' as the evening papers say. I wonder whether Sir ERIC
GEDDES is the rink-controller. But tell me a little about the house. I
suppose there's a high premium and a deep basement?"
"There are."
"Next, please."
"The next is at Chiswick; very damp and miles and miles to catch your bus.
And there's a basement again."
"You might grow mushrooms in the basement," I said hopefully, "while I
hunted my Pimlico on the shore. What about the third?"
"The third is at Hampstead, very high up and very salubrious. The agent
says we should be able to overlook the whole of London."
"Impossible," I protested; "you can't ignore a thing like London."
"I don't think he meant that exactly," she explained. "He said that from
the top bedroom window on bright days one could catch a glimpse of the dome
of St. Paul's."
"That will be rather fine," I agreed. "We can have afternoon receptions in
the top bedroom, and print 'To meet the Dean and Chapter' on the card.
People love meeting Chapters in real life. What is the rental of this
eyrie?"
She told me. It was as high as the site; and, again, there was a dug-out
underneath.
"You haven't tried Ponder's End?" I said at last. "I've often seen those
words on a bus, and a lot of sad-looking people on the top, pondering, I
suppose, the inevitable end."
"Well, which of them are we going to choose? It's the servant problem
that's the real trouble, you know. They simply won't cope with a basement
nowadays."
"I think you overestimate the help crisis," I said. "There are two things
that they really want. The first is to have employers absolutely dependent
on them, and the second is a gay life. To take the first. I remember that
when I was in digs--"
"Do you mind if I knit?" she asked.
--"when I was in digs it was my landlady's fondest delusion that I could do
nothing to help myself. And, of course, I was bound to foster the idea.
Every night I used to hide my pipe behind the coal-scuttle or my latchkey
in the aspidistra, just for her to find. There was rather a terrible moment
once when she came in unexpectedly and caught me losing half-a-crown
underneath the hearth-rug; but I pretended to be finding it, and saved the
situation. It will be just the same with you. You will go down into the
basement and pretend to mistake the flour for the salt, and the cook will
love you for ever. It's all done by kindness and incompetence."
"I suppose it is," she said doubtfully.
"And then there's amusements," I went on. "We will have Charles in once or
twice a week. No servant who has ever heard Charles trying to sing would
prefer a night out at the cinema or the skating-rink. If she does, we'll
get a gramophone."
"Not for worlds," she gasped.
"Oh, _you_ wouldn't have to listen to it. It would live in the basement,
and HARRY LAUDER would help the girl to clean the knives and break the
cups, and GEORGE ROBEY would make washing the dishes one grand sweet song.
The basement would be a fairyland."
"All this doesn't seem to get us much further," she complained, "in
deciding which of those houses we're going to take."
"Oh, doesn't it?" I said, and, sitting down, I wrote a few lines rapidly
and handed her the draft for approval. She approved.
And that is why, if you look at _The Times'_ "Domestic Situations" column
to-morrow, you may see the following announcement:--
HOUSE-PARLOURMAID WANTED, helpless couple, where gramophone kept; state
whether Hampstead, Chiswick or Shepherd's Bush preferred.