“Most seasonable, I declare,” said Mr. Almond, rubbing his hands together.
“Oh, golly! crackers!”
“My eye, look at the mistletoe!” said Bob, and nudged Lydia with his elbow. Lydia immediately affected to ignore the huge bunches of mistletoe pendant in the window and over the table, and admired instead the holly decorating each place.
“A very curious old institution, mistletoe,” said Uncle George, and seemed disappointed that nobody pursued the subject with a request for further information.
When they were all seated, and Grandpapa had leant heavily upon his corner of the table, and found a piece of holly beneath his hand, and vigorously flung it into the enormous fire blazing just behind his chair, Uncle George said again:
“Probably you all know the old song of the ‘Mistletoe Bough,’ but I wonder whether anyone can tell me the origin——”
“We’ll come to the songs later on, my boy,” said Grandpapa briskly. “Get on with the carving. Have you good appetites, young ladies?”
Olive only giggled, but Lydia smiled and nodded, and said, “Yes, Grandpapa, very good.”
“You needn’t nod your head like a mandarin at me. I can hear what you say very well,” said Grandpapa, and Lydia became aware that she had instinctively been pandering to the Senthoven view that Grandpapa was a very old man indeed, with all the infirmities proper to his age.
The Christmas dinner was very well cooked, and very long and very hot, and conformed in every way to tradition.