Then a wonderful thing happened.  It went

Flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flip
perty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty—­FLOP.

I listened intently, hoping for more ... but that was all.  Deeply disappointed that it was over, but absolutely thrilled with my discovery, I hurried back to Celia.

“Any letters you want posted?” I said in an off-hand way.

“No, thank you,” she said.

“Have you written any while we’ve been here?”

“I don’t think I’ve had anything to write.”

“I think,” I said reproachfully, “it’s quite time you wrote to your—­your bank or your mother or somebody.”

She looked at me and seemed to be struggling for words.

“I know exactly what you’re going to say,” I said, “but don’t say it; write a little letter instead.”

“Well, as a matter of fact I must just write a note to the laundress.”

“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-flip
perty-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, and when it comes I think we both feel vaguely that we are still waiting for something.  We are waiting to hear some magic letter go flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty ... and behold! there is no FLOP ... and still it goes on—­flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty—­growing fainter in the distance ... until it arrives at some wonderland of its own.  One day it must happen so.  For we cannot listen always for that FLOP, and hear it always; nothing in this world is as inevitable as that.  One day we shall look at each other with awe in our faces and say, “But it’s still flipperting!” and from that time forward the Hill of Campden will be a place holy and enchanted.  Perhaps on Midsummer Eve—­