I.

Two days before Christmas Jones came home with a large brown paper parcel—square and flat. He carried it carefully upstairs, and hid it in the usual place for such things—the wardrobe—behind his row of neatly pressed suits. Jones was a neat man—both in his mind and clothes. One could imagine his thoughts arranged in orderly rows; the shabby ones at the back, the good serviceable ones at the front ready for use.

He shut the wardrobe door and went down to tea, feeling secretive and clever. In reality he was perfectly transparent and a “dear old ass,” as his wife often said. To-night he felt extremely pleased with himself, and the world—so much so that he refrained from mentioning that the joint was overcooked. “Well, my dear, it is nearly Christmas again,” said he to his wife. She had heard this remark exactly seven times before—she had been married seven years, and she hated being called “my dear.” It made one feel so middle-aged and dull. However, Jones was not to be blamed for this, for he was nearly middle-aged, and just a little bit dull—moreover, “my dear” was with him a term of affection equivalent to the “dearest” and “darling” and “angel” of the very modern couple next door.

Now Betty had seen her husband walking ponderously up the path, from her seat in the window; she had observed the large flat parcel, heard the “dear old thing” tip-toeing up the stairs—heard the creak of the wardrobe door. “What delightful babies men are—even when they are frightfully dignified,” thought this discerning young woman. “I wonder what it can be?” When Jones opened the door he had been greeted by “Hallo, Stephen dear, I didn't hear you come in; tea's all ready.” (Oh, pernicious woman!)

Betty was very kind that evening, she poured out her husband's coffee for him—just as he liked it—and perched on the arm of his chair while he read the paper. She thought of the wardrobe upstairs, and nearly kissed the back of his head, but remembered just in time that Stephen hated sentiment. Instead, she sat at the piano, dreamily playing French love songs. Betty was still young and rather romantic.

Lately affairs had become rather strained in the Jones establishment. Betty had been reading dozens of novels where all the heroes were slim, dashing and passionate. She realised dismally that her Stephen was just a little bald, rather plump, and very matter of fact. While he, returning from a tiring day at the office, was beginning to be aware that tea was never ready, and Betty always out playing Bridge. One day she had actually said “Damn!” when he casually mentioned that his shirt was altogether minus buttons. Such a state of affairs obviously could not continue.

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This twenty-third of December night Betty decided that Stephen wanted to make amends, after the manner of men, and had bought her the little chiffon frock she had wanted so much, as a Christmas present and a peace offering. She thought of the parcel upstairs with a delicious little thrill. In fact, that night she could hardly sleep—such is the effect of a billowy, fluffy chiffon frock upon the mind of a woman. Stephen, the unromantic and middle-aged, had an excellent night.

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!

III.

The Joneses were having breakfast—porridge, bacon, toast and marmalade. Stephen liked order, even in his breakfast. Afterwards he departed upstairs, and Betty sat in silence, wondering how she could bear to look at the hateful picture again. She heard him open the wardrobe door—then a silence—then his footstep upon the stairs. She wanted to rush out into the street. Instead, she remained glued to her chair, staring at a slice of toast. “Happy Christmas, my dear!” Stephen was leaning page 52 page 53 across the table, and in his hands was the flat parcel—that awful, tragic parcel.

Betty smiled sweetly. “Thanks, Stephen,” she said; and began very slowly to undo the string and peel off the wrappings which screened the bleak landscape and the sleek cows from her eyes. Stephen hovered about, watching her furtively, his eyes beaming with good humour and a certain kindly tolerance.

The last wrapper undone, Betty found a flat cardboard box which she hadn't noticed before. Lifting the lid reluctantly she saw—not the cows grazing—but a heap of diaphanous chiffon, fragrant and beautiful. Then an extraordinary thing happened. Stephen saw his wife's curly head go down upon the table, heard a little despairing cry of “Stephen, my dear!”

Mr. and Mrs. Jones often laugh about the picture, which, by the way, he had bought for his brother. The spade is one of Stephen's most precious possessions, and though the chiffon frock is worn out, Betty, because she is still a romantic little thing, keeps it carefully hidden away. It reminds her of Christmas.