Publisher's Synopsis
My friend Robert Brindley, the architect, struck the table with a violent fist, makinghis little boys blink, and then he said quietly: "The deuce!"I gathered that grandmamma's birthday had been forgotten and that it was not afestival that could be neglected with impunity. Both Mr and Mrs Brindley hadevidently a humorous appreciation of crises, contretemps, and those collisions ofcircumstances which are usually called "junctures" for short. I could have imaginedeither of them saying to the other: "Here's a funny thing! The house is on fire!" Andthen yielding to laughter as they ran for buckets. Mrs Brindley, in particular, laughed now; she gazed at the table-cloth and laughed almost silently to herself;though it appeared that their joint forgetfulness might result in temporaryestrangement from a venerable ancestor who was also, birthdays being dulyobserved, a continual fount of rich presents in speci
