"Put pink bows on red slippers! Oh, chuck it, Doro! I perfectly hate the smell of Christmas. Tom and Roland are going, and so is Tavia."
He made a queer face as he said this—one of those indescribable boy illustrations quite beyond interpretation.
"Is she?" asked Dorothy, not knowing anything better to say.
"And Tom and Roland, I repeat. We are going to duck the kiddies. Too cold for little boys."
"Oh, then I shan't go," declared Dorothy. "We've been promising Joe and Roger so long."
"But they don't want to go," insisted Nat. "Sammy Blake is launching his iceboat."
"Oh, I suppose that is a superior attraction even to ghosts," said Dorothy, laughing, "But why do we have to get a tree from the park? Couldn't we buy one?"
"Just like a girl. We couldn't possibly buy trees last week, because—they would not be hand-picked. This week why can't we buy them and—hang the handpicked," he finished. "Now, do you understand, little girl, that the tree is to be in the near-infant ward in the hospital?"
"Oh, I suppose there's no use arguing," decided Dorothy. "I may as well give in."
"May better. Hurry along, now. We're to have a buffet lunch, and get gone directly after. It's time to eat now," and he glanced at his watch.