I was amazed the other day to hear that my landlord had called to
see me. Hitherto our intercourse had been by letter and we had had
heated differences on the subject of repairs. His standpoint seemed
to be that landlords were responsible for repairs only to lightning
conductors and weathercocks. My house possesses neither of these
desirable adjuncts.

I moved an armchair so that no one sitting in it could fail to see the
dampest wall and ordered him to be shown in.

He was a most benevolent-looking old gentleman, and I felt I had done
him an injustice in regarding him as a property shark.

"Glad to see you," he said, shaking me warmly by the hand.

"Do sit down," I said. "That chair is the most comfortable. Don't be
afraid. At that distance from the wall the damp won't affect you."

"So glad to see how comfortable you are here," said the benevolent
one.

"If we could occasionally have a hot bath we should be more
comfortable, but the kitchen range is impossible."

"What you need, my friend, is a house of your own so that you can
adapt it to your own ideas. How would you like this house?"

My breath was taken away. Had the kindly one come to present me with a
house? Was I to be the object of an amiable plutocrat's benevolence?