"I'd wather fight 'em, like Daddy," replied Boy, drawing from its scabbard the miniature sword of strict regimental pattern which--it being a new toy--he had refused to lay aside even for angelic robings.
"But it is Christmas," persisted his mother. "Remember what I told you about it--about the angels, and the peace, and goodwill."
"I shink Chrishmus shkittles, too."
"Quite right, youngster! It is skittles in India," put in a tall man, who, farther down the verandah, was watching a woman's fingers busy themselves over church decorations.
His rather reckless expression changed as, stooping to select a brilliant branch of scarlet-fingered poinsettia from the confused heap of flowers and greenery at their feet, he handed it to his companion, and she looked up to thank him with her eyes.
Boy's mother, who had glanced towards them at the interrupting voice, paused over the angelic robe, uneasily silent.
"I wish I had something white, beside the roses," remarked the cross-maker a trifle hurriedly. "They don't look a bit Christmassy."
"Lilies?" suggested the man.
She shook her head. "Lilies don't suit the climate; there aren't any--here."
He stooped and spoke lower. "Yes! it's a God-forsaken spot all round--for you. But, look here! I saw a dhatura actually in blossom to-day--close to my bungalow. It's not unlike a lily--as white, anyhow--and sweeter. They use it in their temples--so why not in church? It doesn't do to be too particular--when you want anything."