I always think that footnotes to a letter are a mistake, but there are one or two things I should like to explain.

(A) Just as some journalists feel that without the word “economic” a leading article lacks tone, so Margery feels, and I agree with her, that a certain cachet is lent to a letter by a p.t.o. at the bottom of each page.

(B) There are lots of grown-up people who think that “write” is spelt “rite.”  Margery knows that this is not so.  She knows that there is a silent letter in front of the “r,” which doesn’t do anything but likes to be there.  Obviously, if nobody is going to take any notice of this extra letter, it doesn’t much matter what it is.  Margery happened to want to make a “k” just then; at a pinch it could be as silent as a “w.”  You will please, therefore, regard the “k” in “krite” as absolutely noiseless.

(C) Both Margery and Bernard Shaw prefer to leave out the apostrophe in writing such words as “isn’t” and “don’t.”

(D) Years ago I claimed the privilege to monopolise, on the occasional evenings when I was there, Margery’s last ten minutes before she goes back to some heaven of her own each night.  This privilege was granted; it being felt, no doubt, that she owed me some compensation for my early secretarial work on her behalf.  We used to spend the ten minutes in listening to my telling a fairy story, always the same one.  One day the authorities stepped in and announced that in future the ten minutes would be reduced to five.  The procedure seemed to me absolutely illegal (and I should like to bring a test action against somebody), but it certainly did put the lid on my fairy story, of which I was getting more than a little tired.

“Tell me about Beauty and the Beast,” said Margery as usual that evening.

“There’s not time,” I said.  “We’ve only five minutes to-night.”

“Oh!  Then tell me all the work you’ve done to-day.”

(A little unkind, you’ll agree, but you know what relations are.)

And so now I have to cram the record of my day’s work into five breathless minutes.  You will understand what bare justice I can do to it in the time.

I am sorry that these footnotes have grown so big; let us leave them and return to the letter.  There are many ways of answering such a letter.  One might say, “My dear Margery,—­It was jolly to get a real letter from you at last—­” but the “at last” would seem rather tactless considering what had passed years before.  Or one might say, “My dear Margery,—­Thank you for your jolly letter.  I am so sorry about baby’s knee and so glad about your toys.  Perhaps if you gave one of the toys to baby, then her knee—­” But I feel sure that Margery would expect me to do better than that.

In the particular case of this last letter but seven I wrote:—­

“Dearest Margery,—­Thank you for your sweet letter.  I had a very busy day at the office or I would have come to see you.  P.T.O.—­I hope to be down next week, and then I will tell you all about my work; but I have a lot more to do now, and so I must say Good-bye.  Your loving uncle.”