"There is no need for him to be alone," returned Marcus, coolly. "He could invite us to supper. Why don't you propose it, Livy? You seem to say anything that comes into your head. A good bowl of steaming punch would drive all the grey and black spirits away. I would undertake to amuse him." But Olivia only looked at him rebukingly.
"Marcus, it is so tiresome that you will always joke when I want to be serious. Now, do give me a straightforward answer, if you can. Shall you have any visits to pay on Christmas Day?"
"My dear child, how can you expect me to answer in that off-hand way, and without consulting my visiting list? Well, if you must know," as Olivia uttered an impatient exclamation, "I shall have to go up to the Models after tea, to see that poor woman who was confined yesterday. The baby is not likely to live; and then I shall look in on Travers. I don't suppose I shall be out more than an hour."
"Oh, that will do nicely," returned his wife, in a satisfied tone. "Marcus, do you know, I have made up my mind to pay Mr. Gaythorne a surprise visit on Christmas evening. We are always back by six, and I know he does not dine until half-past seven. Do you think I dare venture? You see, I have never been without an invitation yet."
"And you actually mean 'to beard the lion in his den, and Douglas in his hall,'" spouted Marcus. And then, in his ordinary voice, "Well, you might try it, if you like; but I should not be surprised if you got snubbed. Christmas ghosts have a ghastly effect, and rub a man up the wrong way."
"Oh, I will take my chance of that," returned Olivia, cheerfully. "Now I will put Dot to bed, and leave you to finish your nap in peace."
"Thank goodness!" was on the tip of Marcus's tongue, but he refrained and only curled himself up afresh in his easy-chair. He had sat up late over his books the previous night, wasting lamp-oil and coals, as his wife had remarked, rather severely, and the cold air, with a touch of frost in it, had made him sleepy.
Olivia had been bristling all day, like a blissful porcupine, with little plans and surprises: first, she had actually saved out of Aunt Madge's Christmas gift enough money to buy Marcus another of Thackeray's novels; last Christmas she had given him The Newcomes, and this year she had fixed on Esmond.
Marcus was devoted to Thackeray, and thirsted for a complete set of his works, but at present only Vanity Fair and The Newcomes were on his modest bookshelves. Neither the husband nor wife thought it right to spend even those few shillings on the purchase of books, when they could make use of the Free Library.
The new copy of Esmond looked decidedly inviting, with its clean, uncut pages, and then there was really a handsome work-bag for Aunt Madge, fashioned by Olivia's skilful fingers out of a yard of cretonne. Olivia had already received her Christmas presents, and had nothing to expect. Her new outfit, and Dot's pelisse, and Martha's wages were all birthday and Christmas gifts. Nevertheless when Marcus came on Christmas Eve to hang up their scanty store of holly, he was met by his wife's excited face.