ued, "a kind of
clearing-house for the collection and distribution of Christmas
presents. One would give them a list of the people from whom to collect
presents, and of the people to whom to send. Suppose they collected on
my account twenty Christmas presents, value, say, ten pounds, while on
the other hand they sent out for me thirty presents at a cost of fifteen
pounds. They would debit me with the balance of five pounds, together
with a small commission. I should pay it cheerfully, and there would be
no further trouble. Perhaps one might even make a profit. The idea might
include birthdays and weddings. A firm would do the business thoroughly.
They would see that all your friends paid up--I mean sent presents; and
they would not forget to send to your most important relative. There
is only one member of our family capable of leaving a shilling; and of
course if I forget to send to any one it is to him. When I remember him
I generally make a muddle of the business. Two years ago I gave him a
bath--I don't mean I washed him--an india-rubber thing, that he
could pack in his portmanteau. I thought he would find it useful for
travelling. Would you believe it, he took it as a personal affront, and
wouldn't speak to me for a month, the snuffy old idiot."

"I suppose the children enjoy it," I said.

"Enjoy what?" he asked.

"Why, Christmas," I explained.

"I don't believe they do," he snapped; "nobody enjoys it. We excite them
for three weeks beforehand, telling them what a good time they are going
to have, over-feed them for two or three days, take them to something
they do not want to see, but which we do, and then bully them for a
fortnight to get them back into their normal condition. I was always
taken to the Crystal Palace and Madame Tussaud's when I was a child, I
remember. How I did hate that Crystal Palace! Aunt used to superintend.
It was always a bitterly cold day, and we always got into the wrong
train, and travelled half the day before we got there. We never had any
dinner. It never occurs to a woman that anybody can want their meals
while away from home. She seems to think that nature is in suspense from
the time you leave the house till the time you get back to it. A bun and
a glass of milk was her idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time
was taken up in losing us, and the other half in slapping us when she
had found us. The only thing we really enjoyed was the row with the
cabman coming home."

I r