"I don't mean the--Ahem! They certainly are, Mr. Bingle. I expect this
to be the most beautiful Christmas Eve in all my life, sir. I shall
never be able to thank you for--"

"Tush, tush! Now come along. I want to introduce you to the young
ladies and gentlemen. Imogene, my dear, this is Mr. Flanders.
Kathleen, shake hands with--oh, I beg pardon, I ought to have
presented you to the Fairy Princess. Miss Fairweather, just a moment,
please. I want you to meet my friend, Mr. Flanders, of the Banner.
Well, well, are we all here? Let me see: one, two, three--no, hold up
your hands as I call the roll. Strict attention, Mr. Flanders, and
you'll know which is which--I say, Flanders, would you mind looking
this way, please? Children first, on an occasion like this, sir.
Grown-ups don't count. How is your headache, Miss Fairweather? Now,
speak up, children. Answer to your names--and how to Mr. Flanders,
while you're about it."

Planting himself in front of the row of eager children, grasping
Flanders's arm with one hand, and employing the other in a sort of
counting-off process, he called the roll.

Kathleen, exquisitely dressed and radiant with joy, a dainty miss who
looked to be fourteen but was said to be twelve, curtsied to Flanders,
who bowed low, his roving eye unwilling to relax its interest in the
flushed face of the governess. Then came Frederick, a sturdy
youngster; Marie Louise, a solemn-eyed ten-year-old; Wilberforce,
Reginald, Henrietta, Guinevere, Harold, Rosemary, Rutherford, and last
of all Imogene, who whimpered.