CHAPTER XL
The Fincherie Christmas tree had been a great success with a Mrs. Santa Claus in a foam of tulle and lace instead of an apple-dumpling gentleman in a red jerkin and leather boots.
Every one had everything, so the rumor went, and Thurley sang carols until she repeated “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” for the third time and fled in self-defence.
Bliss Hobart had come into the Corners unexpectedly that morning and, after Thurley’s exit, he stood up to suggest three cheers for the Fincherie gray angel, which were given by a happy, well fed community who began to think about the joys of sleep.
Ali Baba, who had always placed Hobart high in personal esteem, tramped over to inform him that Thurley was in the little breakfast room of the original Fincherie.
Hobart moved in that direction with alacrity. He found Thurley sorting over a bundle of letters.
“If you hadn’t come to the Fincherie,” she began, “I should have come to New York to ask you what to do with these people?” She held out some of the letters.
He glanced at them. “Oh, managers will badger any one who has been a gold mine—that’s to be expected. I, myself, was to make a faint protest about too much retirement, but when Mrs. Santa Claus has been a real joy spreader, it isn’t fair to harass her, is it?”
“None of you can bother me overly much. I’m resolved to sing just enough to make people always want me, and live enough to be able to sing my best. There!”
“May you follow that advice! But let’s talk about sentimental things. I always find myself slipping this time of the year.” He sat beside her.