Noel, who was always the Lord of Misrule on these occasions, had insisted with much severity on the usual programme being carried out.
So they had snapdragon in the dark dining-room after tea, and Mollie as usual burnt her fingers, and then they went up to the studio and acted charades and dumb Crambo to an appreciative audience—Mr. Ward, who occupied the front row, and Ann and Mrs. Muggins, who represented the pit.
"Laws, miss, ain't it beautiful and like-life?" observed Ann, the heavy-footed, for the twentieth time. But Everard's eyes were a little misty. If only Dorothy could have seen them! he thought. And then his imagination flew off at a tangent to his old friend, Althea Harford. All the evening her soft, melancholy voice had haunted him. "For the sake of auld lang syne" she had said, and her tone had been full of pathos. "She has never forgotten. I think she is one of those women who never forget," he thought; but he sighed as he said it.
To Waveney those three days were simply perfect, and every hour brought its enjoyment. On Sunday afternoon a snowstorm kept them prisoners to the house, and there was no evening church, so they sang carols by the fire instead, and Ann sat on the stairs with Mrs. Muggins on her lap, and an old plaid shawl of her mother's to keep her warm, and listened as devoutly as though she were in the vestibule of heaven.
"Which is my opinion, Miss Waveney," she observed afterwards, "as the Sadducees and Pharisees could not have sang more sweetly, not with all their golden harps neither."
Waveney looked puzzled for a moment; but Ann's idiosyncrasies were too well known in the household, and after a moment of silent reflection she said,—
"I see what you mean, Ann. You were thinking of the cherubim and seraphim, and it is a fine compliment you are paying us." And then she went off to share the little joke with Mollie and Noel; and the peals of laughter that reached Ann's ears somewhat perplexed that stolid maiden.
On Monday they woke to a white world, and then there was snow balling in the back garden, and then a long walk down Cheyne Walk and across the bridge to Battersea Park. And Mollie went with them, on her father's arm; and when she got tired, which she did far too soon, Noel took her home, grumbling at every step, and Waveney and her father went on. It was Everard's greatest pleasure to walk with his girls, but no companion suited him like Waveney; her light, springy step hardly seemed to touch the ground—and then she was so strong and active, and nothing seemed to tire her. Mollie's sad limp always made his heart ache.
As they stood looking at some floating ice in the river, Everard asked a little abruptly if Mollie had written to Mr. Ingram.
Waveney shook her head. The question rather surprised her.