And he gave her a five-pound note.

It happened so every year.  He provided her with the money to buy him a Christmas present.  But it is, I hope, unnecessary to say that the connection between her present to him and the money he furnished was never crudely mentioned.

She made an opportunity, before he left for the works, to praise the Venetian vases, and she insisted that he should wrap up well, because he was showing signs of one of his bad colds.

II

In the early afternoon she went to Bostock’s emporium, at Hanbridge, to buy the cigar-cabinet and a few domestic trifles.  Bostock’s is a good shop.  I do not say that it has the classic and serene dignity of Brunt’s, over the way, where one orders one’s dining-room suites and one’s frocks for the January dances.  But it is a good shop, and one of the chief glories of the Paris of the Five Towns.  It has frontages in three streets, and it might be called the shop of the hundred windows.  You can buy pretty nearly anything at Bostock’s, from an art nouveau music-stool up to the highest cheese—­for there is a provision department. (You can’t get cheese at Brunt’s.)

Vera made her uninteresting purchases first, in the basement, and then she went up-stairs to the special Christmas department, which certainly was wonderful:  a blaze and splendour of electric light; a glitter of gilded iridescent toys and knick-knacks; a smiling, excited, pushing multitude of faces, young and old; and the cashiers in their cages gathering in money as fast as they could lay their tired hands on it!  A joyous, brilliant scene, calculated to bring soft tears of satisfaction to the board of directors that presided over Bostock’s.  It was a record Christmas for Bostock’s.  The electric cars were thundering over the frozen streets of all the Five Towns to bring customers to Bostock’s.  Children dreamt of Bostock’s.  Fathers went to scoff and remained to pay.  Brunt’s was not exactly alarmed, for nothing could alarm Brunt’s; but there was just a sort of suspicion of something in the air at Brunt’s that did not make for odious self-conceit.  People seemed to become intoxicated when they went into Bostock’s, to close their heads in a frenzy of buying.

And there the art nouveau music-stool stood in the corner, where Vera had originally seen it!  She approached it, not thinking of the terrible danger.  The compartments for music lay invitingly open.

‘Four pounds, nine and six, Mrs Cheswardine,’ said a shop-walker, who knew her.

She stopped to finger it.

Well, of course everybody is acquainted with that peculiar ecstasy that undoubtedly does overtake you in good shops, sometimes, especially at Christmas.  I prefer to call it ecstasy rather than intoxication, but I have heard it called even drunkenness.  It is a magnificent and overwhelming experience, like a good wine.  A blind instinct seizes your reason and throws her out of the window of your soul, and then assumes entire control of the volitional machinery.  You listen to no arguments, you care for no consequences.  You want a thing; you must have it; you do have it.