"Right. Thank you, Diggs. Malnutrition. We never should have had her.
There goes the door-bell, Tell Mrs. Bingle that Mr. and Mrs. Force
have arrived, and give Mr. Force a drink before she comes down."

"Very good, sir." Diggs retired with gravity.

"President of our bank, you know. Mr. Sydney Force," explained Mr.
Bingle.

"I know. The husband of Mrs. Sydney Force," said Flanders, a twinkle
in his grey eyes.

"Sit down, Mr. Flanders. I'd ask you to have a cigar, but the nurses
say that smoke isn't good for the children. Force always smokes here.
I can't tell him not to, you see. He wouldn't come again." In that bit
of ingenuousness, Mr. Bingle exposed the family state of mind in
respect to their aristocratic neighbours. "Now, this is where we have
the reading. Permit me to call your attention to the way we arrange
the--er--the auditorium, you might say. That's where I sit--over
there. I'm glad you've decided to stay and hear The Christmas Carol.
It will do you good, Mr. Flanders. You'll be a better man for it.
There is a train in at nine-fifty-five. We'll not be interrupted here,
so fire away. I'm ready to be interviewed."

They seated themselves on the broad, luxurious couch that marked the
precise centre of the semi-circle and was evidently intended to be the
section of honour. Mr. Bingle leaned back, stretched out his slender
legs, crossed his feet, and looked over his tortoise-shell glasses
with a fine assumption of tolerance. He was still trying, after many
years, to enjoy his own importance. Sad to relate, he still expected