HEREINAFTERS.

I.

There are people in the world called tenants. I think nothing of them;
Celia thinks nothing of them; jointly we do not think anything of
them. However, as this is not so much a grammar as an explanation, I
will get on with it.

For the last two years we have been letting our flat. Naturally Celia
has had to do most of the work; my military duties have prevented
me from taking my share of it. I have been so busy, off and on,
inspecting my fellow-soldiers' feet, seeing their boots mended and
imploring them to get their hair cut that I have had no time for
purely domestic matters. Celia has let the flat; I have merely
allotted the praise or blame afterwards. I have also, of course, taken
the money.

Our tenants have varied, but they are all alike in this. They think
much more of their own comfort as tenants than of our happiness as
landlords. They are always wanting things done for them. When they
want things done for them, then I am firm. Celia may be a shade the
more businesslike of the two, but I am the firmer. I am adamant.

Take the case of Mr. Toots. As the wife of an officer proceeding
overseas, Celia let the flat to Mr. Toots at the nominal rental of
practically nothing a week. I said it was too little when I heard
of it, but it was then too late--Celia had already been referred to
hereinafter as the landlord. When he had been established some
weeks Mr. Toots wrote to say that he wanted seven different kinds of