"You're not eating a thing," said Melissa sternly. "Mr. Diggs, what kind of a lummix are you? Can't you see that he's stinting himself so's them—"
"Now, Melissa," implored Mr. Bingle, "don't say anything on Christmas Eve that you'll be sorry for afterwards. It's all right, I assure you. I'm not very hungry and—"
"But there's more than enough to go 'round," burst out Melissa wrathfully. "There's no sense in your acting like this, Mr. Bingle."
"Sh!"
"Watson, give him some more of that chicken—the white meat, do you understand? And where's the dressing? Mr. Diggs, get those rolls over here—lively! Did he have any soup and fish? Did he—"
"Melissa, what are you trying to do?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "Stuff me so full I'll die in the night?"
"And him lookin' that thin and pale and peaked," went on Melissa, glaring at the unhappy butler and footman. "What have you got them buttons and that striped vest for, Watson? Are you here as a spectator? Get a move on now, both of you. And as for you, Mr. Bingle, I'm going to stand right here and SEE that you eat. Do you suppose I got up this meal for a joke on myself? Not much! The mashed potatoes, Watson! Never mind, Freddy, you can have some more after your daddy's had all he wants. Gee whiz, I'm glad I happened to come in when I did!"
Presently the door-bell rang—a feeble, broken tinkle reminiscent of an original economy—and Mr. Bingle laid down his salad fork with a sigh. The children started violently and a scared, uneasy look went around the table.
"The Society's agents," said Mr. Bingle, closing his lips tightly to prevent their trembling. "Freddy, will you please go to the door?"
"Beg pardon, sir," said Watson, almost reproachfully despite his lordly air. Then, with stately tread, he passed into the little hallway and threw open the outer door.