“Haven’t I told you,” cried Betty, sternly from across the table, “that you were not to make a single complaint against Fate on Christmas Day? Didn’t I tell you yesterday I knew this was going to be the pleasantest Christmas I ever had? So far it certainly has been. The dance last night was the most heavenly thing—my gown is in ribbons, but I can mend it up all right, and put in a couple of new breadths later in the week. And Mr. Fortescue told me he thought that a white muslin gown at Christmas time, with scarlet ribbons and a wreath of geranium leaves, with moss rosebuds, was the most beautiful and poetic costume a girl could wear.”
The Colonel’s white teeth showed under his trim gray moustache.
“Fortescue knows how to pay compliments, my dear,” he said.
“All right,” cried Betty. “A man who doesn’t know how to pay compliments and isn’t equal to telling colossal fibs to the girl he is dancing with, isn’t the man for me.”
When breakfast was over Uncle Cesar brought in the only melancholy news of the day. Old Whitey had gone lame, and there was no going to church that day, nor was it likely that he would be fit to ride the next day at the hunt. Betty sighed deeply. The crust of snow was rapidly disappearing, and the ground would be in good condition for the hunt. However, Betty was of a hopeful nature, and felt sure that a horse would drop down out of the clouds for her to ride.
The Christmas dinner was to be served at the old-fashioned hour of four o’clock, so when breakfast was over and Betty had paid a visit to old Whitey, she went up to her room and, throwing herself upon her bed, began to make up her lost arrears of sleep. The Colonel was downstairs absorbed in his new histories, which Betty had given him for his Christmas gift, and Betty slept peacefully until it was quite three o’clock, and the winter sun was beginning to decline. Then, as she lay awake thinking pleasant thoughts, her door was noiselessly opened, and Kettle appeared above his red cravat, carrying a big bouquet of white roses. He laid the roses down on Betty’s pillow, and said:
“The gent’man who fotch ’em is downstairs—Mr. Fortescue.”
Betty sat up and buried her face in the fresh roses. She knew them well. They came from the greenhouse at Rosehill, and she herself had taught them to bloom late and luxuriantly.
“Tell the gentleman I will be down immediately,” she said, and then, running to her mirror, proceeded to make a fetching toilette out of very simple elements. Her well fitting dark blue gown set off her slender figure, and when she came into the sitting-room, carrying her huge bunch of roses, Fortescue, who sat talking to the Colonel, thought she looked like a peach ripening on the southern wall.