Chapter XII: Mrs. Fountain, Fountain

_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."