"Where are you going for Christmas?" she asked.
"Into the country," he answered.
"That's no good," said the brilliant-eyed white little bride, still contemplating herself in the glass, and giving a finishing touch here and there. "The country's too horrid at this time of year. We are going to Brighton, some friends and I, a rather biggish party; and a whole heap of rooms have been taken at a hotel. That will be fun, I promise you. A dance in the evening. You'd better come; I can get you an invitation."
"Thanks, I couldn't very well. I am going to play the good
boy, and pass one night under the parental roof. It isn't often I get the chance."
"I wish you would tell me where to hang up that piece of mistletoe," she said, presently.
"I know where I should like to hang it up," he made answer, with a sort of lazy impertinence.
"Where?"
"Just over your head."
"Why?"