“Such a fag!” she declared. “Look at me, I’ve done the whole thing in one afternoon! Sallied out with my savings in my purse—two shillings pocket-money, one and three for waking Miles in the morning, sixpence from mother—reward of merit for not biting my nails for a week—ninepence from Norah for my pink silk tie (it cost half-a-crown, and I hated the old thing), four and sixpence altogether—and I got fifteen really handsome presents.”
“Jill, you haven’t! It isn’t possible!”
“It is then; it only needs management. I’ve kept all the chocolate boxes we have had given to us by grateful patients during the year—six of them—and they look ripping filled with sweets at sixpence a pound. I collected mother’s old scent-bottles too, with cut-glass stoppers, and bought a shilling’s worth of eau-de-Cologne to fill them. Such a joke! It didn’t quite go round, so I put some water in the last, and it’s turned quite milky. I’ll have to give that to Pam. She’ll think it something new and superior. I’ve got sticking—plaster for the boys—they are sure to cut their fingers some day—and a beautiful needle-book for mother—ninepence halfpenny—and it looks worth it, every penny. Oh, I say, while I remember, I don’t mind lending you my snow-shoes, but you might take the trouble to put them back when you’ve done with them! I wanted them badly this morning.”
“I haven’t got your old snow-shoes. I don’t know what has come to this house. Everyone is accusing me of stealing! Mother was on the rampage about her gloves this morning, and father’s old smoking-jacket is missing. Mother says it’s a good thing, for it was disgracefully shabby, but he loved it because it was so comfy, and we had such a fuss searching all over the house. Christmas seems to put everything out of gear.”
“Oh, well, it’s worth it! Think of the presents!” cried Jill gleefully. She skipped downstairs, and, sitting down before the writing-table in the drawing-room, pulled out a number of sheets of her mother’s writing-paper, on which she proceeded to indite a number of epistles, in which words and spaces were curiously mingled.
“Dear Aunt Margaret,—Thank you so much for the beautiful ... It is just what I wanted. It was so nice of you to send it to me. I think it is ... I hope you are quite well, and not having asthma any more,—Your loving niece,—
“Margaret.”
“Darling Cousin Flo,—I am so awfully obliged to you for the lovely ... It is just what I wanted. I am so pleased to have it. It will just do for ... I think Christmas is ripping, don’t you? Please write soon to Jill.”
“Dear Mrs Gregory,—It is most kind of you to remember me with such a nice present. The ...
is just what I wanted. I am much obliged to you for remembering me. Has not Christmas Day been ... this year?—I am your loving little friend, Margaret Meredith Trevor.”
“My own dear, darling Norah,—What an angel you are to send me that perfectly ripping ... It is just exactly what I wanted, and I am so proud to have it. Come round to-morrow and see my things. I’ve got ... altogether. Isn’t that a lot? Don’t you call this weather ...?—Your own Jill.”
She was scribbling away—the table littered with the finished productions—when a hand fell on her shoulder and a stentorian voice cried—
“Eh, what? Too busy to hear me come in, were you? What’s the meaning of this sudden industry?” and, starting up, she beheld the red, parrot-like visage of General Digby bending over her. This was not by any means the first visit which the General had paid in return for the “kind enquiries.” He was a lonely old man, and to spend a few minutes in the cheery atmosphere of a family made a pleasant break in his daily constitutional. Mrs Trevor was always pleased to welcome him, but as she was aware that it was not herself but the children who were the attraction, she did not hurry downstairs on occasions like the present.
“Writing Christmas letters, eh?” boomed the General loudly. “Sending off your presents, I suppose. Eh, what? Thanking people for presents, do you say? That’s a bit previous, isn’t it? What’s the hurry?”
“Oh, there’s always so much going on after Christmas, when the boys are at home, and it’s such a bore sticking in the house writing letters. I use up the odd times before, in getting them as ready as I can, and then it only takes a minute to fill in the spaces.”