“What’d he bring?”
“Just a—a package.”
“One naturally supposes that,” replied her husband, with a touch of sarcasm. Then, suspicion gripping him, he burst out, “Look here! If you’ve been getting a Christmas gift for me, I—I won’t have it. I told you I wanted to forget Christmas. I——”
“I know, dear,” she broke in hastily. “The package was only from Aunt Mary.”
“Didn’t you tell her we weren’t keeping Christmas?” he demanded irritably.
“Yes, Scott; but—but you know Aunt Mary! Come now, dinner’s on and I think it’s a good one. You’ll feel better after you eat.”
But Scott found it unaccountably hard to eat; and later, when Nancy was reading aloud in an effort to soothe him, he could not follow. She had chosen something humorous and diverting; but in the midst of a paragraph he spoke, and she knew that he had not been listening.
“Nancy,” he said, “is there any place—any place on God’s earth where we can get away from Christmas?”
She looked up, answering with sweet gentleness, “It would be a hard place to find, Scott.”
He faced her suddenly: “I feel as if I couldn’t stand it—the trees—the carols—the merrymaking, you know. Oh, if I could only sleep this week away! But ... I’ve been thinking.... Would—would you consider for one moment going up to camp with me for a day or two? I’d gone alone, but——”