"Mother!" repeats the official. "Had a mother of some sort, I
suppose."

He is a man who loved his mother sincerely while she lived, but she
has been dead these twenty years, and, for the life of him he cannot
recollect her name. He thinks it was Margaret Henrietta, but is not
at all sure. Besides, what on earth has his mother got to do with
this registered letter that he wants to send to his partner in New
York?

"When did it die?" asks the official.

"When did what die? Mother?"

"No, no, the child."

"What child?" The indignation of the official is almost picturesque.

"All I want to do," explains your friend, "is to register a letter."

"A what?"

"This letter, I want--"

The window is slammed in his face. When, ten minutes later he does
reach the right wicket--the bureau for the registration of letters,
and not the bureau for the registration of infantile deaths--it is
pointed out to him that the letter either is sealed or that it is not
sealed.