"To the laundress," I said. "Of course, just a note."

When it was written I insisted on her coming with me to post it. With
great generosity I allowed her to place it in the slit. A delightful
thing happened. It went

_Flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-
flipperty-flipperty-flipperty--FLOP._

Right down to the letter-box in the hall. Two flipperties a floor. (A
simple calculation shows that we are perched on the fifth floor. I am
glad now that we live so high. It must be very dull to be on the fourth
floor with only eight flipperties, unbearable to be on the first with
only two.)

"_O-oh!_ How _fas_-cinating!" said Celia.

"Now don't you think you ought to write to your mother?"

"Oh, I _must_."

She wrote. We posted it. It went

_Flipperty-flipperty_----However, you know all about that now.

Since this great discovery of mine, life has been a more pleasurable
business. We feel now that there are romantic possibilities about
letters setting forth on their journey from our floor. To start life
with so many flipperties might lead to anything. Each time that we send
a letter off we listen in a tremble of excitement for the final FLOP,