I remember the case of poor little Hildebrand. He was a very young husband, and had been brought up in a very old-fashioned way. One of his quaintly mediæval notions was that woman had no financial capacity and could on no account be trusted with cash. If he had had time, I really think he would have done all the housekeeping himself. Fortunately for the peace of that family this was impossible. However, he exercised as much supervision over the ménage as was possible, even to the extent of looking over the tradesmen’s books. Of course he did not understand their cryptic symbols in the least, and it was a funny sight to see little Hildebrand poring over the small red books, and puckering his conscientious brows in an agony of puzzlement. Every now and then he would turn for enlightenment to his wife, who happily possessed a very robust sense of humour.
‘What’s this, Valeria, “3 m’lade, 11½d.”?’
‘Three pounds of marmalade, dear, it’s cheap enough, surely.’
‘Too cheap to be good, I’m sure, you’d better get a superior quality.’
‘But, my dear boy, it is the best!’
‘Oh!’ Slightly discomfited Hildebrand would resume his study of the grocer’s hieroglyphics and presently a deep sigh would burst forth from him.
‘What’s the matter, darling? Are those wretched accounts annoying you?’ Valeria would ask sympathetically, suppressing her desire to laugh.
‘These fellows keep their books so deucedly queerly. What does this mean “1 primrose, 7½d., and 12 foreign safety, 1½d.”?’
‘One pound of Primrose candles and a dozen boxes of matches; we must have them, and it’s only 9d. anyway.’
‘That’s not the point. What’s this, “2 sunlight, 1s. 2d.”?’