‘Who is quite big?’ said a mocking voice as they entered the schoolroom, where a blazing fire and a table covered with delicious home-baked cakes were awaiting them, and a tall, thin boy, with a somewhat peevish expression, rose from a corner where he had been poring over a book, and came forward to shake hands. This was Ralph, the eldest of Mrs Osbourne’s children. He was just a little older than Vivian, though he might have been Ronald’s age from his very grown-up manner. As a little boy he had been very delicate, and had been abroad a great deal with an old French governess who had taught his mother when she was a child. He was at a boarding-school at Eastbourne now; and, having the idea in his own mind that he had seen a great deal of the world, he was rather inclined to patronise his cousins, who had always lived in the country, and to whom even a visit to London was an event.
They, on their part, did not like him nearly so much as they did Isobel and Claude, and could have told many a story of the want of pluck which he showed in outdoor games; but they admired him for the way in which he could ‘jabber French,’ as Vivian termed it, and for the grown-up books which he read, and politeness made them careful not to stir up questions which might lead to quarrels.
Isobel they adored. She was such a jolly little tomboy, who could climb trees and play cricket as well as any boy, and yet she was such a dainty little maiden, with a very tender conscience and a peace-loving disposition, who often smoothed down angry words which might otherwise have led to blows. ‘My little peacemaker,’ her mother called her, and Ronald thought to himself, as they sat at tea, that the name was well chosen, as he saw the quick colour flash into Claude’s rosy, determined little face at some scoffing remark of Ralph’s, and noticed how cleverly Isobel changed the subject by talking about the party which they were to have the next night, and to which they were looking forward with eager anticipation.
‘There is to be a Christmas tree,’ she explained, pausing in her eagerness, with the teapot in her hand, in the middle of pouring out tea. ‘Last year we had a cinematograph, and the year before a conjurer; but this year mother has promised us a real Christmas tree, with candles all lit up, and presents on it for every one.’
‘Yes; and I think it is ready in the little drawing-room now,’ said Claude, ‘for we have been forbidden to go in. We mustn’t even go into the big drawing-room; and I saw Jane carrying in heaps and heaps of parcels.’
‘Did you?’ said Aunt Dora, who had come into the room unobserved: ‘and what do you think will be inside the parcels, pray?’
‘Presents, heaps and heaps of them,’ replied Claude, his big blue eyes growing bigger at the thought.
‘But not all for you,’ said Ralph, in his calm, superior way, which always made Ronald feel inclined to punch him; ‘there’s a microscope for me, and a writing-case for Isobel, and books or something or other for Ronald and Vivian; and for the little ones, about seven or eight years old, you know, there are tins of toffee. I saw cook making it.’
‘Oh mother, there isn’t!’ said Claude, looking ready to cry at the suggestion. ‘I wrote to Santa Claus and told him I wanted a man-of-war, and I posted it in the chimney myself, and it went right up.’