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In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no
letter would go, and an electric button from which no
mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining
thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James
Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a
former period of prosperity when its possessor was being
paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to
$20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting
to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James
Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he
was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James
Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della.
Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with
the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out
dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray
backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had
only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been
saving every penny she could for months, with this
result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses
had been greater than she had calculated. They always
are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many
a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice
for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something
just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of
being owned by Jim.
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