Now we’ll begin. To Messrs. Morrow & Hope.  Dear Sirs,—­I hate—­no, that’s a little too strong, perhaps—­I much dislike—­that’s better—­I much dislike to bother you at a time when I know you must be overworked in every direction—­you see the idea, don’t you?  What we’ve got to do is to get on their soft side.  It’s no use bullyragging them; understanding their difficulties is much better.  You see that, don’t you?  Of course; I knew you would.  Now then.  Where was I?  Oh yes—­overworked in every direction; but if, as you promised yesterday, but unfortunately were unable—­I think that’s good, don’t you?  Much better than saying that they had broken their promise—­to manage, you could spare a man to attend to our pipes without further delay—­I think you might underline without further delay.  Would that be safe, I wonder?  Yes, I think so—­I should be more than grateful. And now there’s a problem.  What I have been pondering is if it would be wise to offer to pay an increased charge.  I’d do anything to get the pipes mended, but, on the other hand, it’s not a sound precedent.  A state of society in which everyone bid against everyone else for the first services of the plumber would be unbearable.  Only the rich would ever be plumbed, and very soon the plumbers would be the millionaires.  Perhaps we had better let the letter go as it is?  You think so and I think so.  Very well then, just Believe me, yours faithfully, and I’ll sign it.”

And now the Indignant and Confidential.  Mr. Horace Bristowe is dictative:  “Ah, here you are, Miss Tappit.  Now I’ve got trouble with the plumbers, and I want to give the blighters—­well, I can’t say it to you, but you know what I mean.  There’s my house dripping at every pore, or rather pouring at every drip—­I say, that’s rather good; I must remember that to tell them this evening.  Just put that down on a separate piece of paper, will you.  Well, here’s the place all soaked and not a man can I get.  They promised to send on Tuesday, they promised to send yesterday, and this morning comes a note saying that they can’t now send till to-morrow.  What do you think of that?  And they have worked for me for years.  Years I’ve been employing them.

“Let’s begin, anyway. To Messrs. Tarry & Knott.  Dear Sirs—­No, I’m hanged if I’ll call them dear.  Ridiculous convention!  They’re not dear—­except in their charges.  I say, that’s not bad.  No, just put Gentlemen.  But that’s absurd too.  They’re not gentlemen, the swine!  They’re anything but gentlemen, they’re blackguards, swindlers, liars.  Seriously, Miss Tappit, I ask you, isn’t it monstrous?  Here am I, an old customer, with burst pipes doing endless damage, and they can’t send anyone till to-morrow.  Really, you know, it’s the limit.  I know about the War and all that.  I make every allowance.  But I still say it’s the limit.  Well, we must put the thing in the third person, I suppose,