“There’s a pretty girl at the postcard place,” said the boy.  “Mr. Gates didn’t half get off with her, did you?”

Mr. Gates laughed the laugh of triumph.

“She’s not bad-looking,” he said, “but not quite my sort.  Still—­” He stroked his moustache.

“Now, Fred,” said Mrs. Gates archly, “that’ll do; let’s see the cards.”

“This one,” said the girl, “is for Gus.  He’s been called up, you know, so we got him a military one.  You see that girl the soldier’s squeezing?  She’s rather like his young lady, you know, and it says, ‘Come down to Brightbourne and learn how to carry on.’  Gus’ll show it to her.”

The mother agreed that it was well chosen.

“Where’s Beatty’s?” she asked.

“Here’s Beatty’s,” said the boy; “I chose it.  The one with the shrimp on it.  It says, ’At Breezy Brightbourne.  From one giddy young shrimp to another.’  Jolly clever, isn’t it?  And this is for Mr. Hatton, because he’s so fond of beer.  You see there’s a glass of beer, and it says underneath, ’Come where the girls are bright and the tonic’s all right.’  There was another one with a bottle called ’The Spirit of Brightbourne,’ but we thought beer was best.”

“What about Uncle?” the mother asked.

“Oh!” said the girl, “there’s a lovely one for him.  Three men on their hands and knees licking up the whisky spilt from broken bottles.”

“Good Heavens!” said the father, “you can’t send him that.”

“I think not,” said the mother.  “If you sent Uncle that, all the fat would be in the fire.”

“It’s very funny,” said the boy.

“Funny, yes,” said the father.  “But funniness can be very dangerous.  Good Heavens!” and he mopped his brow, “you gave me quite a turn.”

“Very well, who shall we give it to?” the boy asked.  “We mustn’t waste it.”

“I don’t care who has it so long as it’s not your Uncle,” said the father.  “And what have you got for your Aunt Tilly?”

“This one,” said the girl.  “An old maid looking under the bed for a man and hoping she’ll find one.”

“Goodness, Maria!” said the father, “are your children mad?  The idea of sending such a thing to Tilly!”

“But she is an old maid,” said the girl.

“Of course she is,” said the father.  “That’s the mischief.”

“Well, there’s rather a good one where a wife is going through her husband’s trousers and saying, ‘Brightbourne’s the place for change,’” said the girl.  “Would that suit?”

“Of course not,” snapped her father.

“Or the one where the bed is full of fleas?” the boy suggested.

“No jokes about fleas,” said the father sternly.  “No, you must change those for something else.  Don’t be funny at all with either your Uncle or Aunt.  We can’t run any risks.  Send them local views—­coloured ones, of course, but strictly local.”

“Mr. Gates helped us,” said the boy meanly.