December 20.—­Went to Smirksons’, the drapers, in the Strand, who this year have turned out everything in the shop and devoted the whole place to the sale of Christmas cards.  Shop crowded with people, who seemed to take up the cards rather roughly, and, after a hurried glance at them, throw them down again.  I remarked to one of the young persons serving, that carelessness appeared to be a disease with some purchasers.  The observation was scarcely out of my mouth, when my thick coat-sleeve caught against a large pile of expensive cards in boxes one on top of the other, and threw them down.  The manager came forward, looking very much annoyed, and picking up several cards from the ground, said to one of the assistants, with a palpable side-glance at me:  “Put these amongst the sixpenny goods; they can’t be sold for a shilling now.”  The result was, I felt it my duty to buy some of these damaged cards.

I had to buy more and pay more than intended.  Unfortunately I did not examine them all, and when I got home I discovered a vulgar card with a picture of a fat nurse with two babies, one black and the other white, and the words:  “We wish Pa a Merry Christmas.”  I tore up the card and threw it away.  Carrie said the great disadvantage of going out in Society and increasing the number of our friends was, that we should have to send out nearly two dozen cards this year.

December 21.—­To save the postman a miserable Christmas, we follow the example of all unselfish people, and send out our cards early.  Most of the cards had finger-marks, which I did not notice at night.  I shall buy all future cards in the daytime.  Lupin (who, ever since he has had the appointment with a stock and share broker, does not seem over-scrupulous in his dealings) told me never to rub out the pencilled price on the backs of the cards.  I asked him why.  Lupin said:  “Suppose your card is marked 9d.  Well, all you have to do is to pencil a 3—­and a long down-stroke after it—­in front of the ninepence, and people will think you have given five times the price for it.”

In the evening Lupin was very low-spirited, and I reminded him that behind the clouds the sun was shining.  He said:  “Ugh! it never shines on me.”  I said:  “Stop, Lupin, my boy; you are worried about Daisy Mutlar.  Don’t think of her any more.  You ought to congratulate yourself on having got off a very bad bargain.  Her notions are far too grand for our simple tastes.”  He jumped up and said:  “I won’t allow one word to be uttered against her.  She’s worth the whole bunch of your friends put together, that inflated, sloping-head of a Perkupp included.”  I left the room with silent dignity, but caught my foot in the mat.

December 23.—­I exchanged no words with Lupin in the morning; but as he seemed to be in exuberant spirits in the evening, I ventured to ask him where he intended to spend his Christmas.  He replied:  “Oh, most likely at the Mutlars’.”