It was not a very conventional party. The room was "so crowded there was no space for stiffness," said Bab, truly; but everybody seemed to be having the nicest time—even Aunt Henrietta. To be sure, Phyllis heard her suggesting to Mrs. Wyndham that parties were a great extravagance for people in straitened circumstances, but that was said rather as an oblation to her custom of fault-finding, and not heartily; and a moment later she added graciously that "the girls are improving daily. Even Phyllis is becoming more and more a Wyndham; they are all clear Wyndhams."
"Phyllis is just as much a Wyndham, certainly, as her cousins," laughed Mrs. Wyndham.
"Ah, but she is not poor Henry's daughter," said Aunt Henrietta so decidedly that the remark became at once illuminative in effect, if not in matter.
"Ladies in the center, as for the quadrille figure," called Old King Cole, who acted as master of ceremonies. "Men join hands around them; ladies form line, hands raised, men dance through, come down outside, take places, a man beside each lady."
A quaint and merry air was played by a pretty young girl whom Phyllis had never seen, and King Cole's directions were carried out, almost without a mistake.
"Left hand to partner, right hand on mask," called that jovial person. "Ready!"
The little creature at the piano struck three chords, while the masqueraders took position. It really was very pretty, small as the space was.
Suddenly, obeying another chord, every voice poured out in the carol:
"Christ was born on Christmas Day,
Wreathe the holly, twine the bay,"