“Ruth, I have hit upon a profound truth!” I exclaimed. “There is nothing the matter with sin in itself. The only thing that makes the Devil a bad man is that he misbehaves at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Think of the praiseworthy murders that might be committed on the right people, the thefts of horrible objects from the home that would reform humanity; arson if committed on the right kind of shops----” Ruth was running the taps for the washing-up and did not hear a word I said, so I left her and went upstairs to elaborate my theory of sin and write to Mrs. Muff. I allowed Ruth to arrange what food she liked during the next few days, as the kitchen was uninhabitable. They were giving the place a good clean down, she said. The open door disclosed Mrs. Muff singing hymns on a cork island in the middle of a flood, and an army of evicted beetles trying to settle their families into new quarters before Christmas, while Ruth and the range (clasped in one another’s arms, like the victims of Pompeii) breathed mutual forgiveness in a volcanic darkness of dust and ashes. I went out and met the efficient female coming back from town. “I suppose you have done all your Christmas shopping?” she observed. “I always like to get mine done before the rush begins.” “I am waiting for the London catalogues,” I said. “It is such a good way to shop.” She told, as she had done before, how far more satisfactory it is to shop in person. “They put you off with anything if you leave it to them,” etc. I pointed out that with things like soap, and scent, and foie gras, and postage stamps, which are what I generally give people, there is not a wide field for the discretion of the shopman. She was so genuinely grieved at my idea of presents, and I know that she is such a good woman, understanding the public taste, and so on (besides, the catalogues had not come), that I thought it might be fun to try her way and see what it was like. I turned into the principal street where the windows were full of suggestions: “Christmas novelties,” “Serviceable Xmas presents,” “What about the boys? Boots’ marvellous cash sponge always in request.” I bought some things marked “three-eleven-three,” and thought I was doing very well to secure them, as there were only a few. A little farther down the street I saw a great many more of the same things, only they were marked “one-eleven-three,” and looked in better condition. I went home and rearranged my list of people so as to use up some of the inferior “three-eleven-threes.” “I will take away Cousin Jemima’s soup-bowl,” I thought, “and give her one of the spare three-eleven-threes, then Pauline can have the soup-bowl and I will give her pencil-case to Jimmy Duncan, because his mother has taken me out so often.”