They always come, too, when you are expecting some interesting letter.
You hurry to meet the postman, you get impatient at the length of time
he takes to separate his packets (I sometimes think these men find
pleasure in tantalizing you, and keep you waiting on purpose), and
when he at last presents you with your long-expected missive, behold,
it turns to dust and ashes in your hand--metaphorically speaking, of
course.

It is a pity such a metamorphosis does not occur in reality; for the
wretched oblong envelope, with the sprawly, flourishy writing, so
unmistakably suggests a bill, that you--well, I do not know what
_you_ do on such an occasion; _my_ letter, which I have been so
anxious to obtain, is flung to the other side of the room.

How is it that bills mount up so quickly? You buy a little ribbon, a
few pairs of gloves, some handkerchiefs--mere items in fact, and yet
when quarter day comes round you are presented with a bill a yard
long, which as your next instalment of money is fully mortgaged, is
calculated to fill you with anything but extreme joy.

Why are the paths leading to destruction always so much easier of
access than any other? It takes so much less time to run up a bill, it
is so much simpler to say, "Will you please enter it to my account?"
than to pay your money down. First the bill has to be added up, and,
strange as it may seem, these shop people appear to take _hours_ over
a simple addition sum. "Eight and elevenpence halfpenny if you please,
ma'am." Of course you have not enough silver, and so are obliged to
wait for change. Then someone has to be found to sign. Altogether it
takes quite five minutes longer paying ready money; and think, how
five minutes after each purchase would mount up in a day's shopping!