Then he remembered that, in her last letter, Helen had said: "Ronnie, we will have a Christmas-tree this Christmas." Why had Helen said that? He had fully intended to ask her, but had not thought of it from that hour to this.
Possibly it was just a wish to yield to his whim in the matter. Perhaps she was planning to have all the little Simpkins kids up to the house.
Well, if Helen spent Christmas with the Dalmains, she would come in for little Geoff's Christmas-tree, which would certainly be a beauty.
He plodded heavily on. He felt extraordinarily lonely. Would Helen miss him? Hardly. You do not miss a selfish person. He would miss Helen—horribly; but then Helen was not selfish. She was quite the most unselfish person he had ever known.
He went over in his mind all the times when Helen had instantly given up a thing at his wish. Amongst others, he remembered how, on that spring morning so long ago, when he had told her of his new book and of his plan, she had been wanting to tell him something, yet he had allowed her interest to remain untold, when she threw herself heart and soul into his. He began to wonder what it could have been; and whether it would be too late to ask her now.
At last he reached the house, and felt slightly cheered to see lights and fires within. He had almost anticipated darkness.
Mrs. Blake herself opened the door, resplendent in black satin; lavender ribbons in her lace cap.
"La, sir!" she said. "Fancy you walking from the station! You must please to excuse Simpkins being out. He has some Christmasing on at the lodge, for his fam'ly."
"I know," said Ronnie. "I saw a Christmas-tree as I passed. I shall not require Simpkins. Blake, is there a fire in the studio?"
"There is, sir, a fine one, for the good of the piano. There is also a fire in the sitting-room, sir, where I will at once send in some tea."