"No," I said to myself, "I'm on the wrong tack." So I began again:--
"SOME YORKSHIRE POT-HOLES.
"_Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philosophical
Society, Tuesday, December 8th._
"My Lord Mayor, my Lords----"
"I don't want to interrupt," said Celia coming in suddenly, "but--oh,
what's a pot-hole?"
"A curious underground cavern sometimes found in the North."
"Aren't caverns always underground? But you're busy. Will you be in for
lunch?"
"I shall be writing my lecture all day," I said busily.
At lunch I decided to have a little financial talk with Celia.
"What I feel is this," I said. "At most I can ask ten guineas for my
lecture. Now my expenses all the way to the North, with a night at an
hotel, will be at least five pounds."
"Five-pounds-ten profit," said Celia. "Not bad."
"Ah, but wait. I have never spoken in public before. In an immense hall,
whose acoustics----"
"Who are they?"
"Well, never mind. What I mean is that I shall want some elocution
lessons. Say five, at a guinea each."
"That still leaves five shillings."
"If only it left that, it might be worth it. But there's the new white
waistcoat. An audience soon gets tired of a lecture, and then there's
nothing for the wakeful ones to concentrate on but the white waistcoat
of the lecturer. It must be of a virgin whiteness. Say thirty-five
shillings. So I lose thirty shillings by it. Can I afford so much?"
"But you gain the acoustics and the waistcoat."
"True. Of course, if you insist----"
"Oh, you _must_," said Celia.