come."

"You knew I'd come?" echoed Mulrady, with an uneasy return of the
strange feeling of awe with which he regarded Slinn's abstraction.

"Yes; you were alone--like myself--all alone!"

"Then, why in thunder didn't you open the door or sing out just
now?" he said, with an affected brusquerie to cover his uneasiness.
"Where's your daughters?"

"Gone to Rough-and-Ready to a party."

"And your son?"

"He never comes here when he can amuse himself elsewhere."

"Your children might have stayed home on Christmas Eve."

"So might yours."

He didn't say this impatiently, but with a certain abstracted
conviction far beyond any suggestion of its being a retort.
Mulrady did not appear to notice it.

"Well, I don't see why us old folks can't enjoy ourselves without
them," said Mulrady, with affected cheerfulness. "Let's have a
good time, you and me. Let's see--you haven't any one you can send
to my house, hev you?"