familiarity. He would have liked nothing better than an hour or two a
day of general conversation with Mrs. Bingle and Melissa--say while
the latter was tidying up the library--but that was utterly out of the
question under the new order of things. He was compelled, by virtue of
exaltation, to be very crisp, succinct, positive in his treatment of
the most trivial matters; as for conversing amiably with a single
servant in his establishment, something told him more plainly than
words that it would not be tolerated--not for an instant. He would
have given a great deal to be able to just once shout a glad,
cheerful, heart-felt "good morning" to Diggs--or to any one of the
servants, for that matter--but custom and the surprising dignity of
his employees compelled him to utter the greeting in a casual, bored
manner, quite as if he did it automatically and always as if he was on
the point of clearing his throat. He sorely missed Melissa's
spontaneous, even vulgar "Morning, Mist' Bingle," and the rattle of
cutlery and chinaware. Melissa had acquired a fine but watchful
dignity. She now said "good morning, sir" in the hushed, impersonal
voice of the trained servant. She never "joked" with him, as of yore,
although he was by way of knowing that she bubbled over with fun in
the regions "below stairs."

"I haven't heard The Christmas Carol since I was twelve years old,"
said Richard Flanders. He had his note paper on his knee. "What I
want, Mr. Bingle, is a good Christmas story from you. We shall play it
up, of course, and--well, it ought to be good reading. Your own story,
sir, from the beginning. All about the Hooper millions and the
children that just grew."

"Something stranger than fiction, eh?" mused Mr. Bingle. "But, my dear
sir, it's such an old story, this yarn about me. The newspapers have