[Editor.  Now for the robin.

Author.  I am very sorry.  I have just remembered something rather sad.  The fact is that, two days before, Elsie had forgotten to feed the robin, and in consequence it had died before this story opens.

Editor.  That is really very awkward.  I have already arranged with an artist to do some pictures, and I remember I particularly ordered A robin and A wassail.  What about the wassail?

Author.  Elsie always had her porridge upstairs.]

A terrible thought had come into Robert’s head.  It was nearly twelve o’clock.  The house-party was retiring to bed.  He heard the “Good-nights” wafted through the open window; the lights went out, to reappear upstairs.  Presently they too went out, and Robert was alone with the darkened house.

The temptation was too much for a conscience already sodden with billiards, drink and cigars.  He flung a leg over the sill and drew himself gently into the room.  At least he would have one good meal, he too would have his Christmas dinner before the end came.  He switched the light on and turned eagerly to the table.  His eyes ravenously scanned the contents.  Turkey, mince-pies, plum-pudding—­ all was there as in the days of his youth.

[Editor.  This is better.  I ordered A turkey, I remember.  What about the mistletoe and holly?  I rather think I asked for some of them.

AUTHOR.  WE MUST LET THE READERS TAKE SOMETHING FOR GRANTED

Editor.  I am not so sure.  Couldn’t you say something like this:  “Holly and mistletoe hung in festoons upon the wall?”]

Indeed, even holly and mistletoe hung in festoons upon the wall.

[Editor.  Thank you.]

With a sigh of content Hardrow flung himself into a chair, and seized a knife and fork.  Soon a plate liberally heaped with good things was before him.  Greedily he set to work, with the appetite of a man who had not tasted food for several hours....

“Dood-evening,” said a voice.  “Are you Father Kwistmas?”

Robert turned suddenly, and gazed in amazement at the white-robed figure in the doorway.

“Elsie,” he murmured huskily.

[Editor.  How did he know?  And why “Huskily”?

Author.  He didn’t know, he guessed. And his mouth was full.]

“Are you Father Kwistmas?” repeated Elsie.