“Let me write it,” said Margery, eagerly taking the paper and pencil, “and see if it looks silly.”

She retired, and—­as well as she could for her excitement—­copied the word down underneath.  The combined effort then read as follows:—­

SOLICITOR SOLICITOR SOLCTOR

“Yes, you’ve done it a lot of good,” I said.  “You’ve taken some of the creases out.  I like that much better.”

“Do you think there is such a word now?”

“I’m beginning to feel more easy about it.  I’m not certain, but I hope.”

“So do I,” said Margery.  With the pencil in one hand and the various scraps of paper in the other, she climbed on to the writing-desk and gave herself up to literature....

And it seems to me that she is well equipped for the task.  For besides having my pencil still (of which I say nothing for the moment) she has now three separate themes upon which to ring the changes—­a range wide enough for any writer.  These are, “Baby got solicitor” (supposing that there is such a word), “Solicitor got baby,” and “Got baby solicitor.”  Indeed, there are really four themes here, for the last one can have two interpretations.  It might mean that you had obtained an ordinary solicitor for Baby, or it might mean that you had got a specially small one for yourself.  It lacks, therefore, the lucidity of the best authors, but in a woman writer this may be forgiven.

III.—­MY SECRETARY

When, five years ago, I used to write long letters to Margery, for some reason or other she never wrote back.  To save her face I had to answer the letters myself—­a tedious business.  Still, I must admit that the warmth and geniality of the replies gave me a certain standing with my friends, who had not looked for me to be so popular.  After some months, however, pride stepped in.  One cannot pour out letter after letter to a lady without any acknowledgment save from oneself.  And when even my own acknowledgments began to lose their first warmth—­when, for instance, I answered four pages about my new pianola with the curt reminder that I was learning to walk and couldn’t be bothered with music, why, then at last I saw that a correspondence so one-sided would have to come to an end.  I wrote a farewell letter and replied to it with tears....

But, bless you, that was nearly five years ago.  Each morning now, among the usual pile of notes on my plate from duchesses, publishers, money-lenders, actor-managers and what-not, I find, likely enough, an envelope in Margery’s own handwriting.  Not only is my address printed upon it legibly, but there are also such extra directions to the postman as “England” and “Important,” for its more speedy arrival.  And inside—­well, I give you the last but seven.

“My dear uncle I thot you wher coming to see me to night but you didn’t why didn’t you baby has p t o hurt her knee isnt that a pity I have some new toys isnt that jolly we didn’t have our five minutes so will you krite to me and tell me all about p t o your work from your loving little Margie.”