“Dear, dear, dear,” said the Major, laying down his spoon and looking truly distressed. “I had no idea, Mr. Winthrop——! You’ll pardon me, sir, for my—my unfortunate curiosity.”
“Don’t apologize, Major,” answered Winthrop, smilingly. “It has been six years, and I can speak of it now with some degree of equanimity. He was a great boy, that son of mine; sometimes I think that maybe the Lord was a little bit envious.”
“The picture of you, sir,” said the Major, earnestly. “But your lady, sir? She is—ah—well, I trust?”
“Quite, I believe,” answered Winthrop.
“I am glad to hear it. I trust some day, sir, you’ll bring her down and give us the pleasure of meeting her.”
“Thank you,” Winthrop replied, quietly.
Holly began an eager conversation with Julian and the talk became general, the Major holding forth on the subject of Cuban affairs, which were compelling a good deal of attention in that winter of 1897–8. After dinner they went out to the porch, but not before the Major had, unnoticed, stationed himself at the dining-room door with a sprig of mistletoe in his hand. Holly and Julian reached the door together and with a portentous wink at Julian [the Major held the little bunch of leaves and berries over Holly’s head]. Winthrop, the last to leave the room, saw what followed. Julian imprisoned Holly’s hands in front of her, leaned across her shoulder and pressed a kiss on her cheek. There was a little cry of alarm from Holly, drowned by the Major’s chuckle and Julian’s triumphant laugh. Holly’s eyes caught sight of the mistletoe, the blood dyed her face, and she smiled uncertainly.
[THE MAJOR HELD THE LITTLE BUNCH OF LEAVES AND BERRIES OVER HOLLY’S HEAD]
“He caught you, my dear,” chuckled the Major.