_Mrs. Fountain_: "'From Uncle Philip for Clarence.' Well, Uncle
Philip, if you have sent Clarence-- _Clarence!_" breaking into
a whimper: "It is, it is! It's another."
_Fountain_: "Well, that only makes the seventh, and just enough for
every day in the week. It's quite my ideal. Now, if there's nothing
about a cigar-case-- Hello!" He feels in the pocket of the robe and
brings out a cigar-case, from which a slip of paper falls: "'Couldn't
make up my mind between them, so send both. Uncle Phil.' Well, this
is the last stroke of Christmas insanity."
_Mrs. Fountain_: "His brain simply reeled under it, and gave way. It
shows what Christmas really comes to with a man of strong intellect
like Uncle Phil."
_Fountain_, opening the case: "Oh, I don't know! He's put some cigars
in here--in a lucid interval, probably. There's hope yet."
_Mrs. Fountain_, in despair: "No, Clarence, there's no hope. Don't
flatter yourself. The only way is to bundle back all their presents
and never, never, never give or receive another one. Come! Let's begin
tying them up at once; it will take us the rest of the night." A knock
at the door. "Come, Maggie."