Dick thought she was fine. His little fit of anger had spent itself and he was sorry, and genuinely glad that Cecily had come to herself. Inwardly he put it down to the old excuse that she was “tired” and then forgot. For they were all very gay, gayer than ever now that Cecily had really joined in. In the dancing the Christmas tree fell a little awry and had to be propped up with a chair.
It struck midnight. Christmas had come in, unheralded. Matthew spoke, suddenly grave:
“We’re going now, Fliss. This is Christmas, and it’s a holy-day with lots of people. Come.”
They all said good night and Dick and Cecily were left alone in the disordered room. Some sense of Cecily’s grievance must have come to Dick as he looked about.
“Come to bed, dear. We’ll straighten this mess up in the morning.”
“In a minute. You go on.”
He went up and she moved about, arranging and ordering, her brows knit. When she had finished it did not look so different from the way it had looked early in the evening. But she regarded it without emotion. She was doing this for the children and for their self-respect—not for joy. Then she turned out the lights and the room was soft in the light of the dying fire. The tinsel on the tree sparkled. She went upstairs.
Dick was in her room, trying to restore everything, wipe out those few angry words. Cecily was conscious as he talked on, mostly about the children and their enjoyment, that she was making things difficult. She was not responsive, and she knew he felt it. The little glint had gone from his eyes. They were honest and tender now. But, she thought, that other expression lies back of them—just back of them.
Then she was sorry. He was hurt as she turned a little from his kiss. She felt old, maternal, conscious that she could not tell him what he had done, how he had hurt her. Perhaps men were like that; perhaps things did not matter so much to them. She could not tell him. She did not want to hurt him. Gently she kissed him.