"My wife," said Wildfen, sullenly, "is the spirit of contradiction personified."
"And mine of jealousy," added Rutherford.
"And mine of all that's angelic," moaned Plowden; "therefore I must be torn from her by the rude clutches of the law. Did you observe how sweetly she bore the horrible revelation? She looked like a drooping lily, didn't she, Wildfen?"
"No," answered that embodied negative; "you did the drooping-lily part of the play yourself. But are we going to stay here all Christmas, while they are having a good time by themselves?"
"I'm afraid so, unless we sneak back, humbly beg pardon, and persuade them to take pity on us," replied Rutherford.
"Never!" exclaimed the others as one man, except Plowden, who said that he was tired and would lie down, though he did not suppose he could sleep. So he dropped out of the game and stretched himself on the sofa, where Honey neatly tucked him up. The others played on until gray dawn.
A little after midnight, Rutherford, having chanced to glance at his watch, grimly wished his companions:
"Merry Christmas, gentlemen."
"It isn't," snarled Wildfen.
Plowden uttered a groan, so long and deep that the others laughed; and after that laugh they seemed to brighten up a little.