"I'm a woming," piped up Rosemary from the depths of the biggest chair
in the room.

Mr. Bingle cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. Then he
benignly surveyed the audience. The row of servants bobbed their heads
and shifted from one foot to the other.

"Friends all," began the master, "I give you greeting. On this glad
evening no line is drawn between master and man, no--What is it,
Delia?"

The cook had stepped forward. "Excuse me for interruptin', sor, but
for sivin years I've stud through the Christmas Carol, from ind to
ind, and I'm sivin years older than whin I began. I'm no longer young
and hearty. I'm--"

"Well, why do you hesitate? Go on. Do you mean to say you don't want
to hear it again?"

"God knows, sor, I'm willing to give up wan evenin' to society. We all
are, for that matter. But it takes an hour an' a half to read the
blissed story. If we could only sit down during the recital, sor, it--
it wouldn't be so bad. But as it is, sor, we have to stand and only
our legs and feet can go to sleep. If--"

"I see!" cried Mr. Bingle. "You put me to shame, Delia. I never
thought of it in that light. You must have chairs. We will delay the
reading while you go to the dining-room and--"

"It's all right, sor. We've got the dining-room chairs in the hall. It