"Most certainly."
"But, Jasper, you know—"
An imperative gesture silenced her.
"My dear, I'm doing this to relieve you, and that means that you are not even to think of it again."
"Very well; er—thank you," sighed the woman; but her eyes were troubled.
Not so Jasper's; his eyes quite sparkled with anticipation as he left the house some minutes later.
On the way downtown he made his plans and arranged his list. He wished it were longer—that list. Three names were hardly sufficient to demonstrate his theories and display his ability. As for Aunt Harriet, Jimmy, and Uncle Harold being "impossible"—that was all nonsense, as he had said; and before his eyes rose a vision of the three: Aunt Harriet, a middle-aged spinster, poor, half-sick, and chronically discontented with the world; Jimmy, a white-faced lad who was always reading a book; and Uncle Harold, red-faced, red-headed, and—red-tempered. (Jasper smiled all to himself at this last thought.) "Red-tempered"—that was good. He would tell Edith—but he would not tell others. Witticisms at the expense of a rich old bachelor uncle whose heir was a matter of his own choosing were best kept pretty much to one's self. Edith was right, however, in one thing, Jasper decided: Uncle Harold surely could not be given a "paltry" present. He must be given something fine, expensive, and desirable—something that one would like one's self. And immediately there popped into Jasper's mind the thought of a certain exquisitely carved meerschaum which he had seen in a window and which he had greatly coveted. As for Aunt Harriet and Jimmy—their case was too simple for even a second thought: to one he would give a pair of bed-slippers; to the other, a book.
Some minutes later Jasper Hawkins tucked into his pocketbook an oblong bit of paper on which had been neatly written:—
Presents to be bought for Christmas, 1908:
Aunt Harriet, spinster, 58(?) years old—Bed-slippers.