It was the fault of that giant of ineptitude Marigold and his incompetent satellites, whose duty it was to keep all upstairs extensions turned off and receive calls below.

Only two months before I had been the victim of their culpable neglect, when I was forced to have an altercation with a man at Harrod's Stores, who seemed pained because I declined to take an interest in some idiotic remark he was making about fish.
"I'll strangle Marigold with my own hands," I cried.
Betty, unmoved by my ferocity, laughed and rose from the piano.
"Shall I take the call ?" To Betty I was all urbanity.

"If you'll be so kind, dear," said I.
She crossed the room and stopped the abominable buzzing.
"Yes.

Hold on for a minute.

It's the post-office"-- she turned to me--"telephoning a telegram that has just come in.