"Francesca," I said, "listen to this."
"I will," she said, "if it's worth listening to."
"You can't tell that till you've heard it, can you?"
"Well, what is it, anyhow?"
"It's a letter," I said, "from Harry Penruddock."
"That doesn't sound very exciting."
"Ah, but wait a bit."
"Well, get a move on. I've got to see the cook."
"He sends me," I said, "a notice which has been served upon him about
his cottage at Smoltham. He wants to have my opinion about it."
"Very well, give him your opinion, and let's get on with the War."
"Francesca," I said, "are you not more than a little peevish this
morning?"
"I have no patience," she said, "with notices that have to be served.
It's always done by sanitary inspectors and rate collectors, and
people of that sort. Why can't they just post them and have done with
it?"
"Who are you," I said, "that you should fly in the face of Providence
in this way? Can't you see that if a notice is 'served,' it
immediately becomes twice as important?"
"Oh, if it adds to the dignity of an inspector, well and good; but for
my part I should have posted it."
"You are not a sanitary inspector, and cannot realise the feelings of
one."
"They have no feelings, and that's why they're made inspectors."
"Hush!" I said, and began to read:--
"'In pursuance of the directions given in an Act passed in the fifth
and sixth years of the reign of King William the Fourth, entitled "An
Act to consolidate and amend the Laws relating to Highways in that
part of Great Britain called England," I, T. Bradish, of the Town
Hall, Smoltham, do hereby give you notice forthwith to cut, prune,
plash or lop certain Trees and Hedges overhanging the highway
immediately adjoining your premises, No. 15, East Gate, in the Parish
of Smoltham, and which are causing an obstruction and annoyance to
the said highway, so that the obstructions caused to the said highway
shall be removed.
"'Dated this 19th day of October, 1917.'"
"Isn't it priceless?" I said.
"It is," said Francesca. "I never knew before that a road could be
annoyed."
"Even a road has its feelings."
"Yes, perhaps it's a short lane, and everybody tramples on it, and it
turns at last."
"So do borough engineers and surveyors, it seems."
"I bet this one's a Tartar."
"How can you tell that?"
"I can tell it by his style, which is very severe and uncompromising."
"His style," I said, "is as the statute made it, and mustn't be
impugned by us."
"I particularly like that bit about plashing the trees. How in the
name of all that's English do you plash a tree?"
"If," I said, "you were a fountain and wanted to be poetical, you
would plash, instead of splashing."
"That's nonsense," she said.
"No," I said, "it's poetry."
"But you don't pour poetry on overhanging trees. It must mean
something else."
"I'll tell you what; we'll get a dictionary."
"Yes," she said, "you get it. I'm no good at dictionaries. I always
find such a lot of fascinating words that I never get to the one I
want."
"I'm rather like that myself," I said. "However I'll exercise
self-restraint. Here you are: Packthread, Pastime, Pin--there's a lot
about Pin--Plash. Got it! It means 'to bend down and interweave the
branches or twigs of.'"
"Now," she said, "we know what Mr. Bradish wants."
"He's a very arbitrary man," I said. "How can he expect Harry
Penruddock to bend down and interweave the branches or twigs of?"
"Anyway, Harry's got to do it, whether he understands it or not."
"Yes," I said, "borough surveyors take no denials. And now that you've
had your lesson in English, you can go and see the cook."
"Half a mo'," she said; "I'm acquiring a lot of useful information
about 'Plaster.' I never knew--"
"Hurry up," I said, "or we shan't get any lunch."