It was Sir Angus McCurdie's turn to look surprised.

"Then why are you spending Christmas with them?"

"I reviewed a ridiculous blank-verse tragedy written by Deverill on the
Death of Sennacherib. Historically it was puerile. I said so in no
measured terms. He wrote a letter claiming to be a poet and not an
archæologist. I replied that the day had passed when poets could with
impunity commit the abominable crime of distorting history. He retorted
with some futile argument, and we went on exchanging letters, until his
invitation and my acceptance concluded the correspondence."

McCurdie, still bending his black brows on him, asked him why he had not
declined. The Professor screwed up his face till it looked more like a
cuneiform than ever. He, too, found the question difficult to answer,
but he showed a bold front.

"I felt it my duty," said he, "to teach that preposterous ignoramus
something worth knowing about Sennacherib. Besides I am a bachelor and
would sooner spend Christmas, as to whose irritating and meaningless
annoyance I cordially agree with you, among strangers than among my
married sisters' numerous and nerve-racking families."

Sir Angus McCurdie, the hard, metallic apostle of radio-activity,
glanced for a moment out of the window at the grey, frost-bitten fields.
Then he said:

"I'm a widower. My wife died many years ago and, thank God, we had no
children. I generally spend Christmas alone."