“Oh, Roland, Mrs. Boffin has sent us a silver inkstand; isn’t it sweet of her?”
“Muriel, come and look at these candlesticks; they are beauties.”
And letters of eager thanks were written. After a week or so the game began to lose its fascination. The gifts resembled each other; they began to forget who had given what, and as they wrote the letters of acknowledgment they would shout to each other in despair:
“Oh, Roland, do tell me what Mr. Fitzherbert sent us!”
“I can’t remember. I’m trying to think who I’ve got to thank for that butter-dish.”
“The butter-dish!—that was Mr. Robinson—but Mr. Fitzherbert?”
“But the butter-dish wasn’t Mr. Robinson; he was the clock!”
“Then it was Mrs. Evans; and, Roland, do, do think what Mr. Fitzherbert gave us.”
And so it went on, till at last they began to show a decided preference for checks.
And there was the honeymoon: that had to be arranged. Muriel would rather like to have gone abroad.