He halted and looked round on the laughing company.

“My word of honor!  I forgot!—­Lady Polly, I humbly beg your gracious pardon!” He bowed low.

“Granted, Sir Rogue!” she replied, dropping a curtsy.

Full of the spirit of mischief, Patricia slipped away to the piano.  And so the waltzing began.

Of course, everybody knew what to expect from their “men-folk” partners unless they were exceedingly wary, and only an occasional couple whirled into the enchanted circle.

Ice cream and cakes were succeeded by music and the singing of carols, until somebody suggested that it was time to go home.

The host took out his watch.

“I shall not open the door for anybody yet,” he declared.  “Only ten o’clock!  Master Lark will give us another song!”

But before the command had been obeyed, the telephone rang lustily.

“Oh, is it!” Mrs. Randolph heard her husband say.  “Thank you all, and a Merry Christmas to every one of you!”

When he returned he nodded smilingly to her, and then Doodles gave a funny little sleepy song that none of the others had heard,—­“The Land of I-dunno-where.”

Afterwards came more carols, until Blue and Doodles had to hurry away lest they miss the last car to Foxford.

The all-day guests began to put on their wraps, word was sent to bring up the car, and all was bustle and happy words and Merry Christmases in abundance.  Each guest carried a pretty basket filled with gifts from the host and hostess, and it was nearly eleven before the last load was off, with the sleighful of young folks to keep it company.

Nelson Randolph and his wife went silently back to the deserted living-room.

“Seems kind of lonely, doesn’t it?” she said.

“Not a bit!” he replied, leading her under the mistletoe and claiming his reward.

“They did have a good time,” she said happily.

“The best, I’ll warrant, that they’ve had for a decade.”  He looked down at his wife searchingly.

“What is it?” she smiled.

“You didn’t care, did you?”

“For what?”

He tossed his head toward the branch above them.

“No, indeed!” she replied.  “Why should I?”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said slowly; “but some women would have had a fit!”

“I wasn’t built that way,” she laughed.  “I think I enjoyed it more than any of the rest of you!”

“My dearest wife!” he said gravely, while his lips found their favorite spot where a curl strayed over her forehead,—­“My dearest wife!”

She heard with almost a start.  Did he realize his words, or was it simply an impulsive phrase?  A story had been told her once—­but, no, that did not belong to Christmas Eve!

“It was all a happening,” he went on.  “I spied the mistletoe when I was coming home, and it set me to wondering if it wouldn’t help out; so I brought it along.  I wanted those dear women to have a real Christmas merry-making, not a sham affair.  Take such folks, they’ll generally sit around and talk, and laugh a little, and think they are celebrating something.  I wanted them to have a young Christmas.  And I didn’t catch anybody after all,” he ended, a plaintive note in his voice.