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George said, pleased to find his voice didn’t shake.
    “Yes, but the ground’s like iron. Next time I get idiot ideas about climbing trees after cats, for goodness’ sake let me be the one to risk my neck!”
    Marmaduke yowled as Matthew’s arms tightened upon him involuntarily, and George felt absurdly gratified. “I was never in any danger, silly,” he lied fondly. “Now come on. Let’s get this troublesome animal back for his dinner.”
     
     
    A S THE days became shorter, thoughts at 21 Allen Street turned inevitably to Christmas. Picture-frames sprouted wreaths of holly, brightly-colored cards bearing seasonal greetings appeared on the mantelpiece, and George walked into the sitting room one evening to find Miss Lewis attaching a sprig of mistletoe to the door frame with a decided air of mischief. Feeling discretion to be the better part of valor, he fled back upstairs and didn’t go down again until Matthew was with him.
    “Will you be going back to your family for Christmas, George?” Matthew asked as they sat after supper sharing a copy of the Daily Mirror. “I’m off to mine on Christmas Eve and shan’t be back until after the New Year.”
    “I don’t have any family.” George’s tone was shorter than he meant it to be, and he flung an anxious glance in the direction of his friend. But it was a decided blow to discover that he’d be bereft of Matthew’s company for so long.
    “Dreadfully sorry to hear about that, old man. It’s a rotten time to be without people.” Matthew’s face grew solemn—then unexpectedly brightened. “I say, why don’t you come and stay with mine? I’m sure Mother will be delighted to have you—she always says the more the merrier.”
    George froze. “I couldn’t possibly—”
    “Nonsense! Look, I’ll wire her and ask—I won’t mention I’ve said anything to you, so she won’t feel under any pressure to say yes. But she will, anyway.”
    The subject was dropped for a few days, allowing George the leisure to explore what he really felt about the invitation. On the one hand, it was his natural inclination to avoid meeting new people, with their inevitable curiosity about his past. On the other….
    On the other hand, there was Matthew. George was desperately aware that he felt far more than he ought for the cheerful young man. Yet at times, he was half convinced that Matthew felt the same for him. He vacillated between despair that he was merely mistaking Matthew’s natural friendliness for something more—and despair that he couldn’t, in conscience, allow anything to develop between them in any case. To have any sort of relationship with another man involved a great deal of risk—how could he allow Matthew, even a willing Matthew, to undertake such a risk for someone like him? He couldn’t, and that was all there was to it. Matthew deserved more, so much more.
    He had all but determined that he would turn down any invitation flat (not that any invitation would be likely to be forthcoming; obviously Matthew was merely being polite) when Matthew bounded into his room one evening brandishing a telegram. “Look at this, George: ‘Re friend, stop. Would be delighted, stop. Love, Mother, stop.’ So you see, you simply must come!”
    Matthew waited, his expression so bright and hopeful that George found himself giving his assent almost without conscious volition.
    “Now, you needn’t worry if you don’t have any evening wear,” Matthew carried on. “Father’s always a bit of a stickler for the formalities at this time of year, but a dark suit will be perfectly acceptable.”
    “I—actually, I do own a dinner jacket,” George admitted. He’d brought it from home against his better judgment, imagining he’d have little use for it in his new life but somehow not wanting to leave all thoughts of pleasure behind. It was gratifying to find he’d get some wear out of it after all.
    “Splendid! I bet you look awfully dashing in evening wear,”