“I think that’s a pretty nice piece of mistletoe,” he said slowly.  “It ought to be, I paid a good price for it.  But I expect to get my reward before midnight,” he twinkled to the smiling company.

“Don’t be too sure, Mr. Randolph!” cautioned Miss Crilly.

“I am an expert at this business,” he announced gravely, “and all I have to say is, Look out!”

The ladies were still laughing when they sat down to dinner.  Luncheon had been in the sunshine-room, but dinner was served in the dining-room, a big, beautiful apartment all in oak, with a fire crackling at one end.  The favors were knots of mistletoe and holly, and a roasted goose held the place of honor upon the table.  All were in gayest holiday humor, from the mirthful host to quiet Miss Leatherland, who came far enough out of her shy self to show her friends that she possessed a goodly amount of fun and only needed the opportune moment to display it.

As the guests sauntered back to the living-room, they made a wide detour, rather than risk crossing the space beneath the brilliant chandelier with its innocent adornment.  The host, after carefully depositing the cripple in the easiest chair, smiled over to Miss Crilly.

“Too bad to cause you so many unnecessary steps!” he said.

“My feet are not tired,” she smiled back at him.

“Then let’s have a waltz!” he cried, coming up with outstretched hands.

“Too soon after dinner,” she laughed.

“No, it’s a good time!” he twinkled gravely.

She hesitated, considering him with doubt on her face.

“Don’t you trust him!” called Mrs. Randolph.  “He is longing to waltz you under the mistletoe!”

He strode across to his wife.

“How dare you blacken my reputation in the face of all these ladies!” he cried sternly.

She laughed up at him with fearless, roguish eyes.

“Have I suggested anything that was not in your mind to do?”

A burst of laughter assailed him, while he walked off muttering,—­quite audibly,—­“These women! these women!”

The jingling of sleighbells set the keener-eared of the guests to listening.

“Polly wouldn’t come in a sleigh, would she?” queried one.

“They’re stopping here!” announced Miss Castlevaine from a front window.  “But it isn’t Polly,” she added, “it’s—­goodness!—­it’s Santa Claus!”

“Santa Claus!” echoed the roomful.  And regardless of mistletoe, there was a rush across to the windows, while Nelson Randolph went to welcome his guests.

In they came, the strange little party of six, and were presented to the company as Santa Claus and Madam Santa Claus and four of the little Santa Clauses.

“Who can they be?” whispered Miss Mullaly to her neighbor.

“More’n I know,” returned Mrs. Crump.  “I guess Polly’s one of ’em, but which!”