And then, on the morning of
my birthday, the solemn ceremonial of revelation, I would come in to
breakfast, to find a parcel lying by my plate. At first I would not
see it. In a tense and unnatural silence Joan minor would follow me
with her eyes while I opened the window a few inches, closed it again,
stroked the cat and generally behaved as though sitting down at table
was the last thing I intended. Then, when I did take my place, "The
post is early to-day," I would say, pushing the parcel carelessly on
one side as I took up the paper, while Joan minor hid her face in Joan
major's blouse lest her feelings should betray her into premature
speech. And at last I would open it, and my amazement and delight
would know no bounds. There was very little acting needed for that. It
is no small thing to be spirited back to the age when birthdays really
matter.
And so this year it was with a feeling of having been cheated that I
left the house for the office, where, in company with other old fogies
and girl clerks, I do my unambitious bit towards downing the Hun. The
premonitory symptoms had seemed to me unusually acute, but the morning
had brought no parcel.
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