And we went on like that. Look at this:—
June 6th.—Gave up smoking.
June 7th.—Only one pipe since yesterday.
June 30th.—Cut myself down to four pipes a day.
July 1st-9th.—G. keeping accounts; knocked off smoking.
But I wonder why I kept writing it down. Even in September, you see, I wasn't taking it for granted:—
September 29th.—Quarter-Day. Not smoking this quarter. G. began new system of accounts.
It looks like bragging, doesn't it? But I don't think I can have meant it that way. Still, it is rather marvellous, when you come to think of it—here we are, after all these months, twelve of them, and we still stick doggedly to the same unswerving resolution. Nothing can alter it. That's what I call tenacity of purpose.
You don't think I'm serious? But I am. I'm just as serious as I was last year. This year I shall give up smoking. Only I think you ought to give up your hot-water bottle in sympathy. You won't? No, I know you won't. You're a slave of the bottle, you see. It doesn't do you any harm? Oh, yes it does. It makes your backbone flabby, and it makes you susceptible to colds, and it gives you chilblains, and, anyhow, it's morally pernicious, because it's an indulgence ... If I'd known you were a hot-water-bottle woman before we were married ... However, we needn't go into that. But if you won't give up your bottle I shan't give up smoking after all.
Look, they're opening the windows. We shall all catch cold. Can you hear anything? I can hear those people eating. What a draught! Can you hear anything? I can hear the eaters quite plainly now. Here comes Father Christmas. I believe he is going to give us all gifts.