"Of course not—how queerly you talk!"
"Because that was why we kept it in prison."
"But we aren't in prison here."
"Aren't we?—aren't we, Janey?—would there be any good keeping Christmas if we weren't?"
She laughed uneasily.
"Nigel, you're balmy. Come along and help me make mince-pies. It's all you're good for."
In spite of her fears, Christmas morning passed happily enough, and though the dinner was culinarily a failure, socially it was a huge success. The pudding, having triumphantly defeated the onslaughts of knives, forks and teeth, was accorded a hero's death in the kitchen fire, to the accompaniment of the Dead March on Nigel's fiddle, and various ritual acts extemporised by Len from memories both military and ecclesiastical. He was preparing a ceremonial funeral for the mince-pies, when he and Janey suddenly realised that Nigel had left the room.
"Now where the devil has he gone?"
Janey sighed.
"Some silly game of his. I hope he'll be back soon."