Christmas. It's such a pity."

"It's a pity the old Christmas has given way to the new one. With
many it's a sort of hold-up. I don't believe in it."

Claudia's arms were folded on the table, and her eyes were gravely
looking into his. "What kind do you believe in?"

Into Laine's face the color crept slowly, then he laughed. "I really
don't know. I only know the present kind is wrong."

"You know a great many things that are wrong, don't you?"

"I'm afraid I do." With his handkerchief Laine wiped his glasses,
put them back, and again tapped the table. "That is, I know a great
many things that aren't nice to know."

"Most of us do. It isn't difficult to see what isn't nice in people
or things." She got up. "I'm sorry you don't love Christmas."

"Why should I love it? For the men at the office there are checks;
for my brother's widow and children are other checks; for Hope,
another. A man makes a mess of buying presents. Cigars for men and
flowers for women are the two orders telephoned in advance for the
few so remembered. The employees at the clubs, the servants at the
house, the--the associations which do things merely mean more money,
and money--"

"I think I should hate Christmas, too, if it merely meant the writing
of checks or the giving of gold. I wouldn't want a million if there