It was all he could do to keep from crying "Thank Heaven," and to say a
mere "Merry Christmas" instead.

"Wicked, extravagant Boy," exclaimed Evelyn. "Do you know, we are most
unsuitably dressed? But we _had_ to put the things on, hadn't we? It was
wrong of you to buy them, but--don't look so terrified--it was sweet,
too; and I know just the feeling that prompted you to do it. What a
dream-Christmas this is going to be."

And then she and Rosemary thanked him separately, for each individual
thing he had given. It took some time, and they were nearly late for
Church, but not quite.

If Mademoiselle de Lavalette had been looking out of her window at a
certain moment she would have been exceedingly surprised, not only by
the transformation of Madame Clifford and _la petite bête_ from church
mice into visions, but still more by the sight of their companion.

But hot rage and cold disappointment had given her a bad night.

She had expected a guest for dinner. She had put on her prettiest frock,
and had forbidden her mother the Comtesse to paint. She had ordered
champagne, an extra entrée, and a bunch of flowers for the table. Yet
the guest had neither come nor sent an excuse. She had stopped in the
house all the evening, thinking that he might have been detained by an
accident to his automobile; but the hours had dragged on emptily.
Nothing happened except a bad headache, and a quarrel with her mother,
who was ungratefully inclined to be sarcastic at her expense.

Half the night Mademoiselle had lain awake, wondering why the bird had