Collingwood was not a man to be hurried when he had an object in taking time. He affected not to see her hand, when, in reality, he wanted to caress it; and he continued to sip his milk very slowly indeed.
“Christmas Eve,” he said lugubriously, “a bum Christmas if ever there was one.”
“Yes,” said Judge Barton. “Collingwood has an epoch now in life—a landmark. Hereafter he will class all events as before or after the Christmas he spent in hospital.”
“Oh, you,” Collingwood threw at him, “you can afford to smile. You have plenty of friends. It’s not the same with you as with a poor devil like me.”
“My dear fellow,” expostulated the Judge, “‘at night all cats are gray.’ Friends do not make a Christmas. When one is away from one’s home and family at this season, there are no gradations. Ask Miss Ponsonby.”
“Is it true, Miss Ponsonby, what he says?” inquired Collingwood with the air of one appealing to an infallible tribunal.
“I don’t know, Mr. Collingwood. Judge Barton must look for his support to someone who has passed through both experiences. I have passed Christmas away from my family, but I have not passed one surrounded by a host of friends.”
“Ah, but you understand so much,” the Judge murmured. Irritated by her unresponsiveness, he grew almost impertinent. “The keenness of your intelligence is only excelled by your kindness of heart.”
Miss Ponsonby’s cheek for an instant flew danger signals, but she said nothing. She looked at the Judge a moment and subdued him. Then—
“I do not believe you give me credit for any great kindness of heart,” she said simply.