"It was here yesterday," I said. "I am quite sure I saw it."
"Saw what?" said the lady of the house.
"A letter," I said, "that required an answer."
"Well," she said, "there are about fifty letters of that kind on your
table there. Why don't you answer some of those? You can take your pick
of them."
"Those are different," I said. "They've waited a long time, and it won't
hurt them to wait a little longer. The one I want came yesterday, and
required an immediate answer. I remember it quite distinctly."
"Why not answer it, then, without finding it? I'll dictate to
you:--'Dear Sir or Madam,--In answer to your obliging letter, I beg to
say that I much regret I shall be unable to attend the meeting of the
blank committee on the blank of blank, owing to a previous engagement to
be present at the meeting of the blank association for the blank blank
blank. I enclose herewith my subscription of blank, and remain, with
apologies for my delay, yours blankly, etc., etc.' Fire away; you can't
go wrong."
"I am not sure," I said, "that I like all those blanks. It's a good
model, of course, but it's just a bit too sketchy."
"If you remember the letter so perfectly you can fill in the blanks as
you go along."
"I didn't say I remembered it so perfectly as all that. I remember
getting it. I remember it was marked 'Urgent and confidential' or
'Private and immediate,' or something of that kind, and I remember
putting it down on this writing-table and making up my mind to answer it
at once, but I don't remember who it was from----"
"_Whom_ it was from."
"Amiable pedant! I don't remember who my importunate correspondent was,
or what address he or she wrote from, or what it was about. It was one
of those letters that produce a general sense of discomfort, the sort
you want to forget but can't."
"Oh, but _you_ can. I never heard of anything so completely forgotten as
this unfortunate letter."
"Really," I said, "you drive me to despair. Can't you see that a man may
remember the _existence_ of a letter without remembering all its petty
details? For instance, I know there's a Sultan of Morocco, but I don't
know what he's like, or what his name is, or how he's dressed, or what
his exact colour is. Still, there he is, you know."
"Where?"
"Oh, I don't know. Morocco, I suppose, would find him."
"Then all you've got to do is to write him a respectful letter, saying
that you can't accept his Majesty's kind invitation to the small and
early dance at the Palace."
"I am not," I said, "in a humour for frivolity. I want to write a
letter."
"And I," she said proudly, "am doing my best to help you."
"I put it down on this writing-table, and one of you has moved it.
Possibly it looked untidy, and one of you has tidied it--you yourself,
for choice. In that case I shall never, never find it. To think that
there is some one in the world who is eagerly expecting a letter from
me, who is watching for the postman as he comes on his rounds, who is
constantly disappointed, who lapses finally into a sullen acquiescence,
who considers me unbusinesslike--and all because you saw a letter which
didn't please you, and so you tidied it away. After all, it's my
writing-table, and in future I won't have anyone at it except myself."
"Don't be harsh," she said. "How do you know any of us have been at what
you call your table?"
"How do I know?" I said bitterly. "Look at these neat little packets of
papers all put carefully one on top of the other. Look at my pens, look
at my bills, look at my cheque-book, look at my notepaper and
envelopes--I mean, don't look at them, because if you did you wouldn't
see them. They're tucked away out of sight, and all that is left to me
is a blotting pad, on which you have done several interesting money
addition sums, and Peggy has drawn four Red Indians in crayons, and
Helen has tentatively written in ink the words 'alright' and 'allright.'
Oh yes, some of you have invaded my private domain and sat at my table,
and have first scattered and then re-asserted my papers."
At this moment John entered the room, came and stood beside me, and
abstracted from the table a pencil and a sheet of foolscap.
"There," I said, "you can see the result of your dreadful example. Even
this innocent child has learnt to pilfer my writing materials."
"John," said his mother, "would you like to search your father?"
"What's 'search'?" said John.
"Feel in his coat pockets and see if you can find a letter."
John was quite willing. He inserted a pudgy hand into one pocket after
another, and finally extracted a rather crumpled letter.
"Hurrah!" I said. "He's got it."
"What is it?" she said.
"It is a courteous communication from Messrs. Wilfer and Wontner, highly
commending the virtues of their renowned Hygeia tabloids, two to be
taken daily after dinner."
"It's the most private and urgent letter I ever heard of. And now, I
suppose, you'll withdraw your most unjust decree against our using the
writing-table."
"Not at all," I said; "I make it stricter than ever. If you hadn't used
my table I should have looked in my coat pocket and found the letter
long ago."
"Anyhow," she said, "it's a comfort to think you won't have to write to
the Sultan of Morocco."