II.

Christmas Eve! That jolly day when all the world rushes about and laughs joyously. Betty had helped Stephen on with his neat black coat, resisted a temptation to ruffle his smoothly brushed hair — waved to him as he went his dignified way down the little path to the gate. “Dear old Stephen,” she thought. “Betty is decidedly improving,” mused the unsuspecting husband, as he walked to the tram stop. Stephen never ran; also, he never missed trams. The man, as I said before, had an orderly mind.

Betty was dusting the bedroom — little flicks here and there—for she was preoccupied. She stopped before the mirror, thought of the chiffon frock — dainty, filmy, devastating! “I must just peep at it!” We will have to excuse Betty for this—most other women would have felt the same—especially about a frock. She opened the wardrobe door, saw the rows of suits, actually kissed the sleeve of one, for she was a romantic little thing—and, behold, there was the parcel, containing the fulfilment of her dreams. She lifted it out, rather guiltily, I must admit—undid the string, stripped off the covers with reckess abandon, and found—not a fragrant mass of chiffon loveliness— but a picture!

Betty sat on the bed and wept. It wasn't even the kind of picture she liked—a bleak landscape, and a few fat, sleek cows grazing. “Beastly thing!” she sobbed. Naturally she was prejudiced, and could not appreciate its beauties. She dashed downstairs to the telephone, her mind bent on revenge—a ghastly and cruel revenge. “Is that Simms's Hardware? It is Mrs. Jones speaking. Would you please send up a large garden spade at once—thank you. I particularly want it to-day!” Now, Stephen was not at all fond of gardening; it was one of the few things he really disliked. Also, Betty knew that he had wanted a complete set of H. G. Wells—that he expected it for his Christmas present.

That afternoon she hurried off to one of her endless Bridge parties, feeling triumphant, a little wicked, and, also, it must be confessed, more than a little mean. By the way, she played a very bad game, once even forgetting what was trumps! Her hands seemed to be full of spades — ace, king, queen—they swam before her eyes: she wanted to throw the cards across the room. “Really, partner, you're awfully lucky with spades this afternoon!” remarked her hostess. Oh, bitter irony! On the way home Betty saw that the chiffon frock was gone from the window, she felt acutely miserable at the thought that someone else would wear her chiffon frock. She decided that Stephen was not only a thoughtless idiot, but what is far worse—a heartless beast. That evening Mrs. Jones was cold and haughty, and Mr. Jones puzzled and miserable. And it was Christmas Eve!