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.