"Don't you want to hear about Old Scrooge and Tiny Tim?" she whispered.
"I wish I'd thought of doing that," lamented Mr. Force audibly. He had witnessed the little incident.
"I'd sooner hear about Melissa's pirates and sea-cooks," whispered Wilberforce shrilly.
"Order, please!" commanded Mr. Bingle, taking his place at the reading-table. "Please be seated, Mr. Force. Hi! Look out! Not on top of Rosemary."
"Good heavens! I might have squashed her—or him. What are you? A boy or a girl?"
"I'm a woming," piped up Rosemary from the depths of the biggest chair in the room.
Mr. Bingle cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. Then he benignly surveyed the audience. The row of servants bobbed their heads and shifted from one foot to the other.
"Friends all," began the master, "I give you greeting. On this glad evening no line is drawn between master and man, no—What is it, Delia?"
The cook had stepped forward. "Excuse me for interruptin', sor, but for sivin years I've stud through the Christmas Carol, from ind to ind, and I'm sivin years older than whin I began. I'm no longer young and hearty. I'm—"
"Well, why do you hesitate? Go on. Do you mean to say you don't want to hear it again?"