I don't give anything, and Bob looks disappointed. We are set down
neatly at the gate, and a horse-holder opens the brougham door. I don't
give anything; again disappointment on Bob's part. I pay a shilling
apiece, and we enter into the glorious building, which is decorated for
Christmas, and straight-way forgetfulness on Bob's part of everything
but that magnificent scene. The enormous edifice is all decorated for
Bob and Christmas. The stalls, the columns, the fountains, courts,
statues, splendors, are all crowned for Christmas. The delicious negro
is singing his Alabama choruses for Christmas and Bob. He has scarcely
done, when, Tootarootatoo! Mr. Punch is performing his surprising
actions, and hanging the beadle. The stalls are decorated. The
refreshment-tables are piled with good things; at many fountains "MULLED
CLARET" is written up in appetizing capitals. "Mulled Claret--oh, jolly!
How cold it is!" says Bob; I pass on. "It's only three o'clock," says
Bob. "No, only three," I say, meekly. "We dine at seven," sighs Bob,
"and it's so-o-o coo-old." I still would take no hints. No claret,
no refreshment, no sandwiches, no sausage-rolls for Bob. At last I am
obliged to tell him all. Just before we left home, a little Christmas
bill popped in at the door and emptied my purse at the threshold.
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