She was wide awake now, thinking clearly. Why had she so suddenly decided? What, after all, had wiped out the vigor, the great drive in that desire? She knew just what it meant, her going or her refusal to go. Refusal marked her forever as half-hearted, as temporizing, so far as her work went. That she had recognized from the beginning.
Just the glimpse of that bag, the soft leather under her fingers, had settled matters. Without a conscious thought. An extravagant, lovely trifle, but a symbol of the old tender awareness she had so loved in him. Ridiculous, that a thing could have the power to touch you so. Behind it, shadowy, serried, other things—trifles, evidence that Charles gave her sensitive perception, that he loved her, not himself reflected in her. Just that he knew her purse was serviceable and shabby.
Foolish, and adorable. She sighed, happily. He would hate my going away. He would be outraged.
A faint sound outside the door, a scuffle of bare feet, and then a burst into chorus, "Merry Christmas! Merry—" The door flew open, and in they rushed, the three of them. Catherine shot upright, reaching for her bathrobe.
"Merry Christmas, but hurry back where it's warm."
Marian flung her arms around Charles's sleepy head. "Merry Christmas, my Daddy!"
"It's only the middle of the night, isn't it?" Charles groaned.
"It's Christmas morning, and you hurry and get up!"
When the arduous business of dressing was over, Charles turned the switch, and the colored lights starred the little tree. No one was to unwrap a present until after breakfast. Too much excitement on empty stomachs, insisted Catherine. The children dragged the table nearer the door and ranged themselves along the side, so that they could gaze as they ate.