We call it the Magic Box.'
Rogers understood. It had puzzled him before why the children's
clothes, Daddy's and Mummy's as well for that matter, were such an
incongruous assortment of village or peasant wear, and smart, well-cut
garments that bore so obviously the London mark.
'They're very rich indeed,' said Jimbo. 'They have a motor car. These
are the only things that don't fit them. There's not much for me
usually; I'm too little yet. But there's lots for the girls and the
others.' And 'the others,' it appeared, included the Widow Jequier,
the Postmaster and his wife, the carpenter's family, and more than one
household in the village who knew the use and value of every
centimetre of ribbon. Even the retired governesses got their share. No
shred or patch was ever thrown away as useless. The assortment of
cast-off clothing furnished Sunday Bests to half the village for weeks
to come. A consignment of bullion could not have given half the
pleasure and delight that the arrival of a box produced.
But _midi_ was ringing, and _dejeuner_ had to be eaten first. Like a
meal upon the stage, no one ate sincerely; they made a brave pretence,
but the excitement was too great for hunger. Every one was in the
secret--the Postmaster (he might get another hat out of it for
himself) had let it out with a characteristic phrase: 'Il y a un
paquet pour la famille anglaise!' Yet all feigned ignorance.
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