“Pass me up the nails,” cried Mr Fanshawe. “Nails, not tin tacks, addle-head! One, two, three—that’ll keep it fixed. Selina won’t give up the ball of twine, won’t she? I’ll attend to her in a minute.”
They all seemed so happy and busy that a mist came over Miss Lestrange’s eyes. All fear of the future suddenly cleared from her mind. Dicky, in his shirt sleeves, nailing up holly, was pre-eminently the figure of a man to whom one might trust oneself and one’s future.
“Hullo!” said Mr Fanshawe, turning and beaming upon the newcomers. “You’re too late—everything is done, and there’s nothing to nail up, unless we nail up Selina.”
Selina protested vigorously, and Miss Lestrange, taking her in her lap, sat down in the rocking-chair by the fire.
“There’s the bunch of mistletoe,” said Lord Gawdor.
“So there is,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Hand it up here and I’ll nail it out of mischief.”
“I saw Uncle Molyneux kissing Kate under the mistletoe last Christmas,” said Lord Gawdor. “It was in the dining-room, and there was no one there; she squealed and ran round the table, and he ran after her and caught her round the waist, and gave her a kiss on the cheek that sounded like a cracker.”
“Who was Kate?” asked Miss Lestrange.
“The housemaid,” replied Lord Gawdor.
“She had a face just like an apple,” said Doris. “Another nail, Mr Fanshawe?”