"With your eyes shut," commented Suzanne, stooping to a grossly unfair
insinuation. "I must tell Cook to make the breakfast coffee stronger in
future; then you might manage to--"

"Look here, Suzanne, you've been married to me long enough to know my
methods of work. I can't begin an article until I've got the whole thing
shaped in my mind, and to do that I must shut out everything else."

"Especially your wife, I suppose. Well, I won't stay. You've got all the
bills there; but don't start writing the cheques till you've got them well
shaped in your mind."

"But what on earth does all this mass of accounting literature represent?"
I asked.

"For the benefit of new readers a synopsis is attached," said Suzanne.
"They're mostly small items; for instance, Madame Pillby--she's the little
dressmaker round the corner, you know; though why an all-British spinster
should call herself 'Madame' I can't imagine--five-and-fourpence-ha'penny."

"Suzanne; I will _not_ write a cheque for five-and-fourpence-ha'penny! Are
they all like that?"

"The biggest is two guineas; that's what it cost to have my last dance-hat
altered to your specifications, because you said it tickled your nose.
There are seventeen of them in all--bills, not hats; total, twelve pounds
fifteen shillings and elevenpence three farthings, pa-pa."

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do," I said. "I'm going to advertise in
the Personal Columns of the papers that I will not be responsible for