paterfamilias and his bills. I have—” “Did I ever show you,” I broke off to ask as we were crossing the Haymarket, “that little parody of mine on Poe’s poem of ‘The Bells’? It begins—” He interrupted me in his turn— “Bills, bills, bills,” he repeated. “You are quite right,” I admitted. “I forgot I ever showed it to you.” “You never did,” he replied. “Then how do you know how it begins?” I asked. “I don’t know for certain,” he admitted, “but I get, on an average, sixty-five a year submitted to me, and they all begin that way. I thought, perhaps, yours did also.” “I don’t see how else it could begin,” I retorted. He had rather annoyed me. “Besides, it doesn’t matter how a poem begins, it is how it goes on that is the important thing and anyhow, I’m not going to write you anything about Christmas. Ask me to make you a new joke about a plumber; suggest my inventing something original and not too shocking for a child to say about heaven; propose my running you off a dog story that can be believed by a man of average determination and we may come to terms. But on the subject of Christmas I am taking a rest.” By this time we had reached Piccadilly Circus. “I don’t blame you,” he said, “if you are as sick of the subject as I am. So soon as these Christmas numbers are off my mind, and Christmas is over till next June at the office, I shall begin it at home. The housekeeping is gone up a pound a week already. I know what that means. The dear little woman is saving up to give me an expensive present that I don’t want. I think the presents are the worst part of Christmas. Emma will give me a water-colour that she has painted herself. She always does. There would be no harm in that if she did not expect me to hang it in the drawing room. Have you ever seen my cousin Emma’s water-colours?” he asked. “I think I have,” I replied. “There’s no thinking about it,” he retorted angrily. “They’re not the sort of water-colours you forget.” He apostrophized the Circus generally. “Why do people do these things?” he demanded. “Even an amateur artist must have _some_ sense. Can’t they see what is happening? There’s that thing of hers hanging in the passage. I put it in the passage because there’s not much light in the passage. She’s labelled it Reverie. If she had called it Influenza I could have understood it. I asked her where she got the idea from, and she said she saw the sky like that one evening in Norfolk. Great Heavens! then why didn’t she shut her eyes or go home and hide behind the bed-curtains? If I had seen a sky like that in Norfolk I should have taken the first train back to London. I suppose the poor girl can’t help seeing these things, but why paint them?” I said, “I suppose painting is a necessity to some natures.” “But why give the things to me?” he pleaded. I could offer him no adequate reason.