So the list ran on, with such a constant repetition of the same name that Max exclaimed in disgust, “Who is this Miss Peggy Saville that we hear so much about? She’s a greedy thing, whoever she may be;” and Mellicent whined out, “I wish I had been at a boarding-school! I wish my relatives lived abroad. There will be none left for me by the time she has finished.” Then Arthur thrust forward his mischievous face, and put in a stern inquiry—
“Forbes! Where’s that registered letter? That letter with the hundred-pound note. Don’t say you haven’t got it, for I know better. Hand it over now, without any more bother.”
The old postman gave a chuckle of amusement, for this was a standing joke renewed every Christmas that Arthur had spent at the vicarage.
“’Tasn’t come ter-day, Muster Saville. Missed the post. ’Twill be coming ter-morrer morning certain!”
“Forbes!” croaked Arthur solemnly. “Reflect! You have a wife and children. This is a serious business. It’s ruin, Forbes, that’s what it is. R-u-i-n, my friend! Be advised by me, and give it up. The hundred pounds is not worth it, and besides I need it badly. Don’t deprive a man of his inheritance!”
“Bless yer rart, I’d bring it yer with pleasure rif I could! Nobody’d bring it quicker ran I would!” cried Forbes, who like everyone else adored the handsome young fellow who was always ready with a joke and a kindly word. “It’s comin’ for the Noo Year, sir. You mark my words. There’s a deal of luck waitin’ for yer in the Noo Year!”
Arthur’s laugh ended in a sigh, but he thanked the old man for his good wishes, tipped him even more lavishly than usual, and followed his companions to the drawing-room to examine their treasures.
Parcels were put on one side to await more leisurely inspection, but cards and letters were opened at once, and Rob seated himself by Peggy’s side as she placed the pile of envelopes on a table in the corner.
“We are partners, you know,” he reminded her, “so I think I am entitled to a share in these. What a lot of cards! Who on earth are the senders?”
“My godfathers, and my godmothers, and all my relatives and friends. The girls at school and some of the teachers. This fat one is from ‘Buns’—Miss Baker, the one whose Sunday hat I squashed. She used to say that I was sent to her as wholesome discipline, to prevent her being too happy as a hard-worked teacher in a ladies’ school, but she wept bucketfuls when I came away. I liked Buns! This is from Marjorie Riggs, my chum. She had a squint, but a most engaging disposition. This is from Kate Strong: now if there is a girl in the world for whom I cherish an aversion, it is Katie Strong! She is what I call a specious pig, and why she wanted to send me a Christmas card I simply can’t imagine. We were on terms of undying hatred. This is from Miss Moss, the pupil teacher. She had chilblains, poor dear, and spoke through her dose. ‘You busn’t do it, Peggy, you really busn’t. It’s bost adoying!’ Then I did it again, you know, and she sniggered and tried to look cross. This is—I don’t know who this is from! It’s a man’s writing. It looks like a business letter—London postmark—and something printed in white on the seal. What is it? ‘The Pic–Pic–Piccadilly’—Robert!” Peggy’s voice grew shrill with excitement. “The Piccadilly Magazine.”