"William," said Aunt Lucy patiently, as he passed, "I don't want to
say anything unkind, and I hope you won't remember all your life that
you have completely spoilt this Christmas Day for me."

"Oh, dear!" murmured Aunt Jane, sadly.

William, with a look before which she should have sunk into the earth,
answered shortly that he didn't think he would.

During the midday dinner the grown-ups, as is the foolish fashion of
grown-ups, wasted much valuable time in the discussion of such
futilities as the weather and the political state of the nation. Aunt
Lucy was still suffering and aggrieved.

"I can go this evening, of course," she said, "but it's not quite the
same. The morning service is different. Yes, please, dear--_and_
stuffing. Yes, I'll have a little more turkey, too. And, of course,
the vicar may not preach to-night. That makes such a difference. The
gravy on the potatoes, please. It's almost the first Christmas I've
not been in the morning. It seems quite to have spoilt the day for
me."

She bent on William a glance of gentle reproach. William was quite
capable of meeting adequately that or any other glance, but at present
he was too busy for minor hostilities. He was _extremely_ busy. He was
doing his utmost to do full justice to a meal that only happens once a
year.

"William," said Barbara pleasantly, "I can _dweam_. Can you?"