_Flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-
flipperty-flipperty-flipperty--FLOP._
I listened intently, hoping for more ... but that was all. Deeply
disappointed that it was over, but absolutely thrilled with my
discovery, I hurried back to Celia.
"Any letters you want posted?" I said in an off-hand way.
"No, thank you," she said.
"Have you written any while we've been here?"
"I don't think I've had anything to write."
"I think," I said reproachfully, "it's quite time you wrote to
your--your bank or your mother or somebody."
She looked at me and seemed to be struggling for words.
"I know exactly what you're going to say," I said, "but don't say it;
write a little letter instead."
"Well, as a matter of fact I _must_ just write a note to the laundress."
"To the laundress," I said. "Of course, just a note."
When it was written I insisted on her coming with me to post it. With
great generosity I allowed her to place it in the slit. A delightful
thing happened. It went
_Flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-
flipperty-flipperty-flipperty--FLOP._
Right down to the letter-box in the hall. Two flipperties a floor. (A
simple calculation shows that we are perched on the fifth floor. I am
glad now that we live so high. It must be very dull to be on the fourth
floor with only eight flipperties, unbearable to be on the first with
only two.)
"_O-oh!_ How _fas_-cinating!" said Celia.
"Now don't you think you ought to write to your mother?"
"Oh, I _must_."