Propped on his pillows in a crimson dressing-gown, and freshly shaved,
he looked more Roman than he ever did, except in his bath. Having
disposed of coffee, he was wont to read his letters, and The Morning
Post, for he had always been a Tory, and could not stomach paying a
halfpenny for his news. Not that there were many letters--when a man has
reached the age of eighty, who should write to him, except to ask for
money?
It was Valentine's Day. Through his bedroom window he could see the
trees of the park, where the birds were in song, though he could not
hear them. He had never been interested in Nature--full-blooded men with
short necks seldom are.
This morning indeed there were two letters, and he opened that which
smelt of something. Inside was a thing like a Christmas card, save that
the naked babe had in his hands a bow and arrow, and words coming out
of his mouth: "To be your Valentine." There was also a little pink note
with one blue forget-me-not printed at the top. It ran:
"DEAREST GUARDY,--I'm sorry this is such a mangy little valentine; I
couldn't go out to get it because I've got a beastly cold, so I asked
Jock, and the pig bought this.
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