The evening wore away pleasantly. The chat reverted to old times, and by degrees Mrs. Dawkins seemed to grow less tired.
About ten o'clock the Idiot invited his neighbor to adjourn to the smoking-room, where they each lit a cigar and indulged in a companionable glass.
"Idiot," said Dawkins, when his wife called out to him that it was time to go home, "your wife is a wonder. I've been trying for three months to make Polly come up here and she wouldn't. Keeps books, you know--now. Has to--so much to do. Thought you owed us a call, but received your bill Wednesday--looked it up--questioned servants--found you were right."
"Why, the one Mrs. Idiot sent--this," said Dawkins, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Confoundedly good joke."
The Idiot took up the piece of paper. It was type-written--on Tommy's machine--and read as follows:
November 1 1898 MR. AND MRS. RICHARD DAWKINS _To Mr. and Mrs. Idiot Dr._
September 20 Evening call 1 Account overdue. Please remit.
"My dear," said the Idiot after the Dawkinses had gone, "that bill of yours was a great idea."
"It wasn't my idea at all--it was yours," said Mrs. Idiot, laughing. "You said we ought to be business-like to the last and send out a statement on the first of the month. I sent it. And they paid up."
"Richard," said Mrs. Dawkins, as they drove home, "did you get a receipt?"
"I am very glad I didn't take Tommy and Mollie to church with me this morning," said Mrs. Idiot, on her return from service. "It would have broken their hearts to have heard the sermon. I don't know what gets into Dr. Preachly sometimes. He gave us a blast about Santa Claus."
"A blast about Santa Claus, eh!" said the Idiot. "And how did he blast the good old saint?"
"He said he was a lie," rejoined Mrs. Idiot, indignantly, "and that it was the duty of every Christian in the land to see that the lie was exposed."
"Great heavens!" cried the Idiot, in astonishment. "Doesn't Dr. Preachly believe in Santa Claus? Poor old Preachly! How much he has lost! Did he say anything about Hop o' My Thumb and Cinderella?"
"No, of course not. Why should he?" returned Mrs. Idiot.
"Oh, because; I suppose that a man who doesn't believe in Santa Claus is a skeptic on the subject of Hop o' My Thumb, and Rumpelstiltzken, and Cinderella, and Jack the Giant-Killer, and all the rest of that noble army of childhood friends," explained the Idiot.