"
"Well, let's get on with the letter of thanks," said Egbert.
"Proceed," said Janetta.
"'How clever of you to guess that Wordsworth is our favourite poet,'"
dictated Egbert.
Again Janetta laid down her pen.
"Do you realise what that means?" she asked; "a Wordsworth booklet next
Christmas, and another calendar the Christmas after, with the same
problem of having to write suitable letters of thankfulness. No, the
best thing to do is to drop all further allusion to the calendar and
switch off on to some other topic."
"But what other topic?"
"Oh, something like this: 'What do you think of the New Year Honours
List? A friend of ours made such a clever remark when he read it.' Then
you can stick in any remark that comes into your head; it needn't be
clever. The Froplinsons won't know whether it is or isn't."
"We don't even know on which side they are in politics," objected Egbert;
"and anyhow you can't suddenly dismiss the subject of the calendar.
Surely there must be some intelligent remark that can be made about it."
"Well, we can't think of one," said Janetta wearily; "the fact is, we've
both written ourselves out. Heavens! I've just remembered Mrs. Stephen
Ludberry. I haven't thanked her for what she sent."
"What did she send?"
"I forget; I think it was a calendar."
There was a long silence, the forlorn silence of those who are bereft of
hope and have almost ceased to care.
Presently Egbert started from his seat with an air of resolution.
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