"She'll come around all right," said Mr. Bingle gaily. "Give her time, old fellow, give her time."
"Good heavens, what a racket they're making," growled Force. "Have you no control over them, Bingle? I'd send the whole lot of them to bed, hang me if I wouldn't."
"On Christmas Eve? Oh, no, you wouldn't, old—Where are you going?"
"I'm going into the library to smoke," said Force. "I can't stand the row."
"Now, don't do that," pleaded Mr. Bingle, grasping his arm. "Wait a minute. I'll speak to Kathie. She—"
"Do nothing of the sort," snapped Force. "She doesn't like me, and that's all there is to it. I've taken a fancy to the child, Bingle—I never liked a kid before in all my life. I've got a little present for her, but—oh, well, never mind. I'll put it in her stocking, if you'll tell me which is hers. But I say, why doesn't she like me, Bingle?" He was staring at the back of Kathleen's brown, curly head, and his eyes were filled with perplexity.
"Bashful—just bashful," explained Mr. Bingle.
"Do you really think so?" demanded the other eagerly.
"Sure," said Mr. Bingle, delighted. "All girls go through that stage of development. I don't mind saying to you, Force, she's my favourite. It's a dreadful thing to say, but I'd rather lose any one of them—or all of them—than to lose Kathie. I love her with all my heart."
Flanders was shaking hands with the small boys, Mrs. Bingle looking on with placid approval.