On my return about four in the afternoon my parlourmaid met me with an agonised face, and exclaimed:
“We have had a time since you went out, m’m!”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“By twelve o’clock that front door-bell began to ring,” she said, “and it has never ceased. Ladies in motors, people in carriages, gentlemen in hansoms, babies in perambulators—and they have all left parcels.”
“Parcels!” I exclaimed in horror.
“Yes, m’m, parcels. The cloak-room is stacked from floor to ceiling.”
THE WRITER BURIED IN PARCELS FOR MESSINA
By Harry Furniss
This rather took my breath away, and I wondered how on earth I should ever get that number of things to Sicily.