“What lots!” Constance exclaimed, rushing to the fire. “Here, mother! Here, Sam!”
The girl had resumed possession of the woman’s body.
Though the Baines family had few friends (sustained hospitality being little practised in those days) they had, of course, many acquaintances, and, like other families, they counted their Christmas cards as an Indian counts scalps. The tale was satisfactory. There were between thirty and forty envelopes. Constance extracted Christmas cards rapidly, reading their contents aloud, and then propping them up on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Baines assisted. Fan dealt with the envelopes on the floor. Mr. Povey, to prove that his soul was above toys and gewgaws, continued to play the harmonium.
“Oh, mother!” Constance murmured in a startled, hesitant voice, holding an envelope.
“What is it, my chuck?”
“It’s——”
The envelope was addressed to “Mrs. and Miss Baines” in large, perpendicular, dashing characters which Constance instantly recognised as Sophia’s. The stamps were strange, the postmark ‘Paris.’ Mrs. Baines leaned forward and looked.
“Open it, child,” she said.
The envelope contained an English Christmas card of a common type, a spray of holly with greetings, and on it was written, “I do hope this will reach you on Christmas morning. Fondest love.” No signature, nor address.
Mrs. Baines took it with a trembling hand, and adjusted her spectacles. She gazed at it a long time.