"I
could get much cheaper ones myself! If I ever have the money I'll do the
buying--you hear?"
"--Hello, Langshaw! Looking at that rod again? Why don't you blow
yourself to a Christmas present? Haven't you got the nerve?"
"That's what I don't know!" called Langshaw with a wave of the hand as
Wickersham passed by. Yet, even as he spoke he felt he did know--his
mind was joyously, adventurously made up to have "the nerve"; he had a
right, for once in the twelve years of his married life, to buy himself
a Christmas present that he really wanted, in distinction to the gift
that family affection prompted, and held dear as such, but which had no
relation to his needs or desires. Children and friends were provided
for; his wife's winter suit--a present by her transforming
imagination--already in the house; the Christmas turkey for the janitor
of the children's school subscribed to--sometimes he had wished himself
the janitor!--and all the small demands that drain the purse at the
festal season carefully counted up and allowed for.
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