various members of the family. His face was slightly flushed and he
talked with unusual eagerness. An atmosphere of reckless good-will
surrounded him, and when he made a remark about there being no presents,
even Keith knew it to be facetious.

The last hour was the longest. The father and the mother had withdrawn
to the parlour and closed the door behind them. The girl was setting the
table and couldn't be disturbed. Granny was nervous and irritable
because she knew that she would be forced to join the rest at the table
that night. Keith felt like a disembodied soul let loose in infinite
space without goal or purpose.

Toward eight o'clock the parlour door opened and Keith was called in. A
tiny Christmas tree stood on a table in a corner, glistening with lights
and multicoloured paper festoons. It represented a great concession,
because neither one of the parents cared much for the trouble involved.
If there had been a number of children in the family, they said, then it
would have been another matter. The truth was that Keith didn't care
very much either. He clapped hands and shouted excitedly, of course, but
his glances went sideways to the big sofa, where stood a huge hamper
piled to twice its own height with parcels, all wrapped in snow-white
paper and sealed with red sealing wax. The air of the room was charged
with the rich smell of newly melted wax, and to Keith that smell was
always the essence of Christmas, its chief symbol and harbinger.

During those few minutes in the parlour a dozen tall candles had been
lighted in the living-room, transforming the place that a moment before
seemed so dreary. The dining table was opened to its full length and
placed across the middle of the room, at right angles to the
chaiselongue where Keith slept nights. Cut glass dishes and silver-ware