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suitable, and could he not persuade Maud to lay aside the book and help him with the tree?
    He could not. In the end, only Mathilda responded to his appeal for assistance. She asserted her undying love for tinsel decorations, and professed her eagerness to hang innumerable coloured balls and icicles on to the tree. "Though I think, Joe," she said, when the company had dispersed, "that no one else feels any sympathy with your desire for a Merry Christmas."
    "They will, my dear; they will, when it comes to the point," said Joseph, incurably optimistic. "I have got a collection of little presents to hang on the tree. And crackers, of course!"
    "Does it strike you that Edgar Mottisfont has got something on his mind?" asked Mathilda.
    "Yes," Joseph replied. "I fancy there is some little matter connected with the business which has gone wrong. You know what a stick-in-the-mud Nat is! But it will blow over: you'll see!"
    Judging from Mottisfont's crushed demeanour at luncheon, his interview with his sleeping partner had not been in keeping with the Christmas spirit. He looked dejected, while Nathaniel sat in disapproving gloom, repulsing all attempts to draw him into conversation.
    Valerie, who seemed during the course of the morning to have made great headway with the dramatist, was unaffected by her host's blighting conduct, but everyone else seemed to feel it. Stephen was frankly morose, his sister restless, Mathilda silent, the dramatist nervous, and Joseph impelled by innate tactlessness to rally the rest of the guests on their lack of spirits.
    The gloom induced by himself had the beneficent effect of raising Nathaniel's spirits at least. To find that his own ill-humour had quenched the gaiety of his guests appeared to afford him considerable gratification. Almost he rubbed his hands together with glee; and by the time the company rose from the table, he was so far restored to equanimity as to enquire what his guests proposed to do to amuse themselves during the afternoon.
    Maud broke her long, ruminative silence by announcing that she would have her rest as usual, and very likely take her book up with her. Still cherishing the fancy that the life of the Empress would make a good play, she said that of course it would be rather difficult to stage that erratic lady's travels. "But I daresay you could get over that," she told Roydon kindly.
    "Willoughby doesn't write that sort of play," said Paula.
    "Well, dear, I just thought it might be interesting," Maud replied. "Such a romantic life!"
    Nathaniel, perceiving from the expressions of weary boredom on the faces of his guests, that the Life of the Empress Elizabeth was not a popular subject, at once, and with ill-disguised malignity, affected a keen interest in it. So everyone, except Stephen, who lounged out of the room, had to hear again about the length of the Empress's hair, the circus-horses, and the jealousy of the Archduchess.
    "Who would have thought," murmured Mathilda in Mottisfont's ear, "that we undistinguished commoners should be haunted by an Empress?"
    He gave her a quick, perfunctory smile, but said nothing.
    "Who cares about Elizabeth of Austria, anyway?" asked Paula impatiently.
    "It's history, dear," explained Maud.
    "Well, I hate history. I live in the present."
    "Talking of the present," struck in Joseph, "who is going to help Tilda and me to finish the tree?"
    He directed an appealing look at his niece as he spoke. "Oh, all right!" Paula said ungraciously. "I suppose I shall have to. Though I think it's nonsense myself."
    Since it had begun to snow again, and no other entertainment offered, Valerie and Roydon also joined the tree-decorating party. They came into the billiardroom with the intention of turning on the radio, but they were quite unable to resist the lure of glittering tinsel, packets of artificial frost, and coloured candles. Roydon was at first inclined to lecture the company on the childishness of keeping up old customs, and Teutonic ones at