"Don't they all do what yours did last night? Don't they all speak of 'peace and good-will'?"
This was a shade too personal, and the Colonel dropped Dorothea's pincushion in a hurry.
"Yes, yes, of course,—all right, no doubt. But such things are not in my line, I'm afraid. Too much trouble for a busy man to bother about a lot of cards."
Did Dorothea hear him? She was looking towards the window wistfully, dreamily; a moist glitter showing through her glasses.
"I'm not sure," she said as if to herself, "but I almost think Christmas cards are a sort of carrying on of the angels' song. A sort of echo of it. Don't you think so, father?"
"My dear, I'll trouble you to ring the bell. Mrs. Stirring will over-do the cutlets, and it's time the tea was poured out. Brewed long enough. You'd better take all that rubbish off the table. What's this?"
Any amount of notes of admiration might have been written after the question. Dorothea watched him, smiling, though she rebelled internally against the word "rubbish."
"Some mistake," said the Colonel gruffly.
"No, father; it is for you. It is from me."
Colonel Tracy looked extremely uncomfortable. He had had presents from Dorothea from time to time; but always as it happened by post; little bits of pretty handiwork, which he could smile over grimly, and consign to a lumber-drawer, only wishing that they would not come because he had to compose a sentence of thanks in his next letter. But for years he had received no present in public, so to speak,—with a witness to his manner of reception. That the giver should be seated opposite was embarrassing, and that he should be expected to show pleasure was more embarrassing still. His red rust complexion grew redder than usual, and an awkward laugh broke from him, as he took refuge in blowing his nose. Still Dorothea looked expectant, and the parcel had to be opened.