"Mary," he said, "we are ready to light the tree, and Aunt Frances is having fits because you aren't down. You know she always has fits when things are delayed. Poole, you are a selfish hermit to stay off up here with a tree of your own."
Roger, who had stepped forward to speak to Leila, shook his head. "I don't deserve to be invited. And you're all too good to me."
"Oh, but we're not," Leila spoke in her pretty childish way; "we'd love to have you down. Everybody's just crazy about you, Mr. Poole."
They shouted at that.
"Leila," Barry demanded, "are you crazy about him? Tell me now and get the agony over."
Leila, tilting herself on her pink slipper toes almost crowed with delight at his teasing: "I said, everybody——"
Barry advanced to where she stood in the doorway.
"Leila Dick," he announced, "you're under the mistletoe, and you can't escape, and I'm going to kiss you. It's my ancient and hereditary privilege—isn't it, Poole? It's my ancient and hereditary privilege," he repeated, and now he was bending over her.
"Barry," Mary expostulated, "behave yourself."
But it was Leila who stopped him. Her little hands held him off, her face was white. "Barry," she whispered, "Barry—please——"