Mr. Fitzgerald had been summoned home by his guardian for Christmas, much to his disgust.
‘Oh, that! But Dom doesn’t count!’ says Betty, tilting her pretty nose in rather a disdainful fashion.
Breakfast is nearly over, however, before the post arrives. The postman of Curraghcloyne has had many delays to-day. At every house every resident has given him his Christmas-box, and sometimes a ‘stirrup cup’ besides, so that by the time he gets to the Rectory he is very considerably the worse for wear. Yet he gives out his letters there with the air of a finished postman, and accepts the Rectory annual five shillings with a bow that would not have disgraced Chesterfield. That his old caubeen is on the side of his head, and his articulation somewhat indistinct, detracts in no wise from the dignity of the way in which he delivers his packages and bids Mr. Barry ‘All th’ complaints o’ t’ saison!’
‘Oh, here’s one from Dom!’ cries Betty, tearing open her letter. ‘And written all on the back! What on earth has he got to say on a Christmas card? Why didn’t he write a letter?
‘“My dear Betty,
‘“I feel as I write this that you don’t know where you are. That shows the great moral difference between you and me. I know where I am, and I wish to Heaven I didn’t. Old uncle is awfully trying. Puts your back up half a dozen times a minute. I don’t believe I’ll ever get back; because if he doesn’t murder me I shall infallibly murder him, and then where shall we all be? I’ve written most religiously all over this card (I chose a big one on purpose), so that you cannot, in the usual mean fashion peculiar to girls, send it on again to your dearest friend as a New Year’s offering. See how well I know your little ways!”’
‘Isn’t he a beast!’ says Betty, with honest meaning. ‘And it would have done so nicely for old Miss Blake. You see, she has sent me one, though I had quite forgotten all about her. I must say Dom is downright malignant. I suppose I’ll have to buy her one now. All the rest of mine have “Happy Christmas” on them, and it does look badly to send a card like that for New Year’s Day. Dom’s has both Christmas and New Year on it, and of course it would have suited beautifully. Oh, Susan’—pouncing on a card in Susan’s hand—‘what a beauty, and nothing written on the back. You will let me have it for Miss Blake, won’t you?’
‘No, no,’ says Susan hastily. She takes it back quickly from Betty. A little sharp unwelcome blush has sprung into her cheeks.
‘Who is it from—James?’