Guy, half way up among the branches, said:
‘What are you saying?’
And Hugo answered:
‘Green felicity . . .’ and then:
‘On a drear nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree . . .
‘Oh,’ Guy said, ‘well, I suppose so . . . but I don’t see why too happy?’
And I said:
‘But it just is . . .’
And Hugo said: