He had in his mind the picture of an ideal Christmas tree, and as he rejected one prospect after another, the picture became more vivid.
"You're a rusty runt," he informed an anæmic-looking pine that appeared in his path. "And you're too much like a beanpole," he told another. "Yes, and you're lop-sided," he explained to a third; "you look like you'd had an arm cut off."
The afternoon waned. Dusk came on. To be in the woods after dark would be quite useless, so he might as well be starting for home. And still the picture of the perfect tree possessed his mind. If he could only think where it was.
Then suddenly it came to him. Why, of course! That was just where he had seen it! It wasn't exactly growing wild, but the people who inhabited the place wouldn't care. He felt quite sure about that. And anyway, it would be dark by the time he reached there.
An hour later when Nancy Guilford opened the door in response to his ring (for which she had been listening for some time) a perfect specimen of cypress greeted her delighted gaze. It was bright green, symmetrical and bushy-limbed. It was as perfect as the picture on a Christmas card. Nancy's exclamations and gurglings of delight brought her mother to the door, with the result that Sube was invited over that evening to help trim the tree.
When he arrived some two hours later he found the gift tree mounted in a disguised soap box, and standing at one end of the parlor from which the furniture had been removed to facilitate the laying of the crash, with the entire household gathered round about offering on-lookers' advice as to the most effective way of decorating it.
This was not exactly as he had anticipated. He had planned to arrange those details according to his own ideas and Nancy's. But somehow he managed to live through it. If, however, he had known that the Guilfords were entertaining company he would not have come. He hated to meet strangers, especially tall women dressed all in black who think they have got to talk to a fellow all the time.
When Sube was presented to Mrs. Hotchkiss-Harger he fastened his gaze on a little red spot on the crash and moved his lips deferentially, although no sound came. Observing his embarrassment, Mrs. Hotchkiss-Harger attempted to put him at his ease by the questionable method of interrogation.
"So this is the young man," she remarked in her deep voice, "to whom we are indebted for this beautiful tree?"
Sube nodded microscopically.