"It's no good," he said, "you can't deceive me. After a good many years at the business I'm rather sensitive to impressions." He wagged a finger at me. "Now then, uncle. Was your whole heart in it when you bought that box of soldiers, or did you do it with an effort, telling yourself that the children mustn't be forgotten—and knowing quite well that you had forgotten them?"
"One has a—a good deal to think about just now," I said uneasily.
"Oh, I'm not blaming you; everybody's the same; but it makes it much less jolly for me, that's all. You see, I can't help knowing. Why, even your Aunt Emily, when she bought you that delightful blotter ... which you have your foot on ... even she bought it in a different way from last year's. Last year she gave a lot of happy thought to it, and decided in the middle of the night that a blotter was the one thing you wanted. This year she said, 'I suppose he'd better have his usual blotter, or he'll think I've forgotten him.' Kind of her, of course (as, no doubt, you've said in your letter), but not the jolly Christmas spirit."
"I suppose not," I said.
Father Christmas sighed again and got up.
"Well, I must be trotting along. Perhaps next year they'll want me again. Good-bye."
"Good-bye. You're quite sure there's nothing else for me?"
"Quite sure," he said, glancing into his bag. "Hallo, what's this?"
He drew out a letter. It had O.H.M.S. on it, and was addressed to "Father Christmas."
"For me? Fancy my not seeing that before. Whatever can it be?" He fixed his spectacles again and began to read.