It is strange how sometimes the human mind can harbour simultaneously two entirely contradictory emotions. Mrs Dreyton was consumed with annoyance that any guest of hers should be so inconsiderate as to terminate his stay in the middle of a Christmas party; but was, at the same time, impatient to be rid of such a skeleton at the feast. One of the things that she had found attractive in Clarence Love had been an unfailing fund of small talk, which, if not brilliant, was at any rate bright and breezy. He possessed, also, a pleasant and frequent smile and, till now, had always been assiduous in his attention to her conversation. Since yesterday, however, he had turned silent, inattentive, and dour in expression. His presentation to her of a lovely emerald brooch had been unaccompanied by any greeting beyond an unflattering and perfunctory ‘Happy Christmas!’ He had also proved unforgivably oblivious of the mistletoe, beneath which, with a careful carelessness, she stationed herself when she heard him coming down to breakfast. It was, indeed, quite mortifying; and, when her husband described the guest as a busted balloon, she had neither the mind nor the heart to gainsay him.
Happily for the mirth and merriment of the party Dreyton seemed to derive much exhilaration from the dumb discomfiture of his wife’s friend, and Elinor had never seen or heard her husband in better form. He managed, too, to infect the children with his own ebullience; and even Miss Potterby (the governess) reciprocated his fun. Even before the entry of Father Christmas it had thus become a noisy, and almost rowdy, company.
Father Christmas’s salutation, on arrival, was in rhymed verse and delivered in the manner appropriate to pantomime. His lines ran thus:
There was clapping of hands at this, for there is nothing children enjoy so much as mummery; especially if it be slightly mysterious. The only person who appeared to dislike the recitation was Love, who was seen to stop both ears with his fingers at the end of the first verse and to look ill. As soon as he had made an end of the prologue, Santa Claus went ahead with his distribution of gifts, and made many a merry quip and pun. He was quick in the uptake, too; for the children put to him many a poser, to which a witty reply was always ready. The minutes indeed slipped by all too quickly for all of them, except Love, who kept glancing uncomfortably at his wrist-watch and was plainly in a hurry to go. Hearing him mutter that it was time for him to be off, Father Christmas walked to his side and bade him pull a farewell cracker. Having done so, resentfully it seemed, he was asked to pull out the motto and read it. His hands were now visibly shaking, and his voice seemed to have caught their infection. Very falteringly, he managed to stammer out the two lines of doggereclass="underline"
‘And now,’ said Father Christmas, ‘I must be making for the next chimney; and, on my way, sir, I will see you into the Underground.’
So saying he took Clarence Love by the left arm and led him with mock ceremony to the door, where he turned and delivered this epilogue:
At this point with sudden dramatic effect, he clicked off the electric-light switch by the door; and, by the time Dreyton had groped his way to it in the darkness and turned it on again, the parlour-maid (who was awaiting Love’s departure in the hall) had let both him and Father Christmas out into the street.
‘Excellent!’ Mrs Dreyton exclaimed, ‘quite excellent! One can always depend on Harridge’s. It wasn’t the same man as they sent last year; but quite as good, and more original, perhaps.’
‘I’m glad he’s taken Mr Love away,’ said young Harold.
‘Yes,’ Dorothy chipped in; ‘he’s been beastly all day, and yesterday, too: and his presents aren’t nearly as expensive as last year.’
‘Shut up, you spoilt children!’ the father interrupted. ‘I must admit, though, that the fellow was a wet blanket this evening. What was that nonsense he read out about a re-union?’
Miss Potterby had developed a pedagogic habit of clearing her throat audibly, as a signal demanding her pupils’ attention to some impending announcement. She did it now, and parents as well as children looked expectantly towards her.
‘The motto as read by Mr Love,’ she declared; ‘was so palpably inconsequent that I took the liberty of appropriating it when he laid the slip of paper back on the table. Here it is, and this is how it actually reads:
That makes sense, if it doesn’t make poetry. Mr Love committed the error of reading “be united” as “re-united” and of not observing the comma between the two lines.’
‘Thank you, Miss Potterby; that, of course, explains it. How clever of you to have spotted the mistake and tracked it down!’
Thus encouraged, Miss Potterby proceeded to further corrective edification.
‘You remarked just now, Mrs Dreyton, that the gentleman impersonating Father Christmas had displayed originality. His prologue and epilogue, however, were neither of them original, but corrupted versions of passages which you will find in Professor Borleigh’s Synopsis of Nativity, Miracle and Morality Plays, published two years ago. I happen to be familiar with the subject, as the author is a first cousin of mine, once removed.’
‘How interesting!’ Dreyton here broke in; ‘and now, Miss Potterby, if you will most kindly preside at the piano, we will dance Sir Roger de Coverley. Come on, children, into the drawing-room.’
On Boxing Day there was no post and no paper. Meeting Mrs Simpson in the Park that afternoon, Mrs Dreyton was surprised to hear that Father Christmas had kept neither of his two other engagements. ‘It must have been that horrid fog,’ she suggested; ‘but what a shame! He was even better than last year:’ by which intelligence Mrs Simpson seemed little comforted.
Next morning—the second after Christmas—there were two letters on the Dreytons’ breakfast-table, and both were from Harridge’s. The first conveyed that firm’s deep regret that their representative should have been prevented from carrying out his engagements in Pentland Square on Christmas night owing to dislocation of traffic caused by the prevailing fog.