And the mere thought of Income
Tax sends my temperature up."
"Ah," said Berry. "I had a quiet hour with the Book of the Words, issued
by that Fun Palace, Somerset House, this afternoon. _Income Tax, and How
to Pay it._ Commonly styled, with unconscious humour, The Income Tax
Return. By the time I was through I had made out that, if I render a
statement according to the printed instructions, my tax will exceed my
income by one hundred and forty-four pounds. If, on the other hand, I
make an incorrect return, I shall be fined fifty pounds and treble the
tax payable. You really don't get a look in."
"If you say much more," groaned Jonah, "you'll spoil my appetite. When I
reflect that in 1913 and a burst of piety I sent the Chancellor of the
Exchequer a postal order for eight and sixpence by way of Conscience
Money, I feel positively sick."
"Not piety," corrected my brother-in-law. "Drink. I remember you had
some very bad goes about then."
"What a terrible memory you have!" said Adele. "I feel quite uneasy."
"Fear not, sweet one," was the reply. "Before I retail your
indiscretions I shall send you a list of them, with the price of
omission clearly marked against each in red ink. The writing will be all
blurred with my tears.
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