“I remember that when I was a child,” Jean said.  “We used to be put to sleep with it; it is very soothing.  Thank you so much, Miss Bathgate ...  Now I think we should have a game.”

“Forfeits,” Miss Teenie suggested.

“That’s a silly game,” said Mhor; “there’s kissing in it.”

“Perhaps we might have a quiet game,” Jean said.  “What was that one we played with Pamela, you remember, Jock?  We took a subject, and tried who could say the most obvious thing about it.”

“Oh, nothing clever, for goodness’ sake,” pleaded Miss Watson.  “I’ve no head for anything but fancy-work.”

“‘Up Jenkins’ would be best,” Jock decreed; so a table was got in, and “up Jenkins” was played with much laughter until the clock struck ten, and the guests all rose in a body to go.

“Well,” said Miss Watson, “it’s been a very pleasant evening, though I wouldn’t wonder if I had a nightmare about that funeral pyre ...  I always think, don’t you, that there’s something awful pathetic about Christmas?  You never know where you may be before another.”

One of the guests, a little music-teacher, said: 

“The worst of Christmas is that it brings back to one’s mind all the other Christmasses and the people who were with us then....”

Bella Bathgate’s voice was heard talking to Mrs. M’Cosh at the door:  “I dinna believe in keeping Christmas; it’s a popish festival.  New Year’s the time.  Ye can eat yer currant-bun wi’ a relish then.  Guid-nicht, then, and see ye lick that ill laddie for near settin’ the hoose on fire.  It’s no’ safe, I tell ye, to live onywhere near him noo that he’s begun thae tricks.  Baith Peter an’ him are fair Bolsheviks ...  Did I tell ye that Miss Reston sent me a grand feather-boa—­grey, in a present?  I’ve aye had a notion o’ a feather-boa, but I dinna ken how she kent that.  And this is no’ yin o’ the skimpy kind; it’s fine and fussy and soft ...  Here, did the Lord send Miss Jean a present?...  I doot he’s aff for guid.  Weel, weel, guid-nicht.”

With a heightened colour Jean said good-night to her guests, separated Mhor from his train, and sent him with Jock to bed.

As she went upstairs, Bella Bathgate’s words rang in her ears dismally:  “I doot he’s aff for guid.”

It was what she wanted, of course; she had told him so.  But she had half hoped that he might send her a letter or a little remembrance on Christmas Day.

Better not, perhaps, but it would have been something to keep.  She sometimes wondered if she had not dreamt the scene in the Hopetoun Woods, and only imagined the words that were constantly in her ears.  It was such a very improbable thing to happen to such a commonplace person.