And what would she do then, poor thing? I doubt she would die of
boredom--painfully, one hopes. In the same way, if the shop-keepers
in Bond Street knew there was no one who could not afford to buy the
things in their windows, there would be an end to the display that
makes those windows intolerable (to you and me) during the month of
December. I had often suspected that the things there were not meant
to be bought by people who could buy them, but merely to irritate the
rest. This afternoon I was sure of it. Not in one window anything
a sane person would give to any one not an idiot, but everywhere a
general glossy grin out at people who are not plutocrats. This sort
of thing lashes me to ungovernable fury. The lion is roused, and I
recognise in myself a born leader of men. Be so good as to smash those
windows for me.
One does not like to think that Christmas has been snapped up, docked
of its old-world kindliness, and pressed into the service of an odious
ostentation. But so it has. Alas! The thought of Father Christmas
trudging through the snow to the homes of gentle and simple alike
(forgive that stupid, snobbish phrase) was agreeable. But Father
Christmas in red plush breeches, lounging on the doorstep of Sir
Gorgius Midas--one averts one's eyes.
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