Whether this was a compliment to the late Mr. Hall, Kenneth did not know. His landlady bustled out of the room, glad to think that her lodger would enjoy himself for once in his life. She had asked his permission to buy the chicken, but the plum pudding, which followed it, she had ventured to make without having received leave beforehand. He would only have said, "No, Mrs. Hall; I couldn't really eat anything more, even if you were to make it." Knowing that he would say this, Mrs. Hall had made her pudding without authority, and carried it in with great delight, a brown, well-boiled Christmas pudding, bristling with numberless almond spikes, like a porcupine covered with quills.
"There, sir!"
"Mrs. Hall! Mrs. Hall! What am I to do to you? You'll ruin me one of these days."
"Nonsense, sir. You'll never be ruined by a bit of Christmas pudding. Eat it while it's hot, sir. It's sickly-like when it's cold."
Kenneth had just finished this Christmas dinner, when there came a loud ring at the bell. Mrs. Hall went to the door, and presently returned with a yellow envelope in her hand.
"A telegram, sir! It went to the office, but the boy found it closed, and the caretaker sent him on here."
Kenneth took it from her, and opened it without any feeling of surprise or curiosity. Telegrams often came to the office, and he had left word that, in his absence, they were to be sent on to his lodgings. But when he saw the words on the pink paper inside, he started, and turned so pale that Mrs. Hall, who was waiting at the door to see if he wished to send an answer, could not help noticing it.
"Not bad news, I hope, sir?" she said.
"I hardly know, Mrs. Hall. Ask the boy for a form; I must send an answer."
It was a very short reply, soon written and quickly despatched—