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“There ought to be an association,” he continued, “a kind of clearing-house for the collection and distribution of Christmas presents. One would give them a list of the people from whom to collect presents, and of the people to whom to send. Suppose they collected on my account twenty Christmas presents, value, say, ten pounds, while on the other hand they sent out for me thirty presents at a cost of fifteen pounds. They would debit me with the balance of five pounds, together with a small commission. I should pay it cheerfully, and there would be no further trouble. Perhaps one might even make a profit. The idea might include birthdays and weddings. A firm would do the business thoroughly. They would see that all your friends paid up–I mean sent presents; and they would not forget to send to your most important relative. There is only one member of our family capable of leaving a shilling; and of course if I forget to send to any one it is to him. When I remember him I generally make a muddle of the business. Two years ago I gave him a bath–I don’t mean I washed him–an india-rubber thing, that he could pack in his portmanteau. I thought he would find it useful for travelling. Would you believe it, he took it as a personal affront, and wouldn’t speak to me for a month, the snuffy old idiot.”

“I suppose the children enjoy it,” I said.

“Enjoy what?” he asked.

“Why, Christmas,” I explained.

“I don’t believe they do,” he snapped; “nobody enjoys it. We excite them for three weeks beforehand, telling them what a good time they are going to have, over-feed them for two or three days, take them to something they do not want to see, but which we do, and then bully them for a fortnight to get them back into their normal condition. I was always taken to the Crystal Palace and Madame Tussaud’s when I was a child, I remember. How I did hate that Crystal Palace! Aunt used to superintend. It was always a bitterly cold day, and we always got into the wrong train, and travelled half the day before we got there. We never had any dinner. It never occurs to a woman that anybody can want their meals while away from home. She seems to think that nature is in suspense from the time you leave the house till the time you get back to it. A bun and a glass of milk was her idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time was taken up in losing us, and the other half in slapping us when she had found us. The only thing we really enjoyed was the row with the cabman coming home.”

I rose to go.

“Then you won’t join that symposium?” said B—–. “It would be an easy enough thing to knock off–‘Why Christmas should be abolished.'”

“It sounds simple,” I answered. “But how do you propose to abolish it?” The lady editor of an “advanced” American magazine once set the discussion–“Should sex be abolished?” and eleven ladies and gentlemen seriously argued the question.

“Leave it to die of inanition,” said B—–; “the first step is to arouse public opinion. Convince the public that it should be abolished.”

“But why should it be abolished?” I asked.

“Great Scott! man,” he exclaimed; “don’t you want it abolished?”

“I’m not sure that I do,” I replied.

“Not sure,” he retorted; “you call yourself a journalist, and admit there is a subject under Heaven of which you are not sure!”

“It has come over me of late years,” I replied. “It used not to be my failing, as you know.”

He glanced round to make sure we were out of earshot, then sunk his voice to a whisper.

“Between ourselves,” he said, “I’m not so sure of everything myself as I used to be. Why is it?”

“Perhaps we are getting older,” I suggested.