He took her hand. She pressed his and laughed up at him, trying to make him smile back.
It was their custom to go to their parents’ bedroom first thing on Christmas morning. Outside the door Peter hung back, but Kay dragged him forward.
Billy sat up, throwing back the counterpane, pretending to be terribly excited at the thought of what they had brought him. Kay held up a parcel. “What is it?” he asked. “Let me have it. What is it?”
“Guess. Father’s got to guess, hasn’t he, mother?”
“A fishing-rod?”
“Don’t be silly, father. How could a fishing-rod be as small as that?”
The guessing went on—such absurd guessing!—until the paper was torn off and a match-box was revealed.
“And now, what’s Peter brought me?”
“Nothing, father. I haven’t got anything for anybody. So, please, I don’t think I ought to take any of your presents.”
Billy looked at Nan; this explained the absence of the Christmas stocking. “But, old boy, what became of your money?”