When my cigarettes were handed to Barfleur, Santa Claus tapped them sapiently. “More wretched cigarettes!” he remarked in his high falsetto. “I know them well! If it isn’t one vice that has to be pampered, it’s another. I would have brought him pâté de foies gras or wine, if I didn’t think this was less harmful. He’s very fond of prawns too, but they’re very expensive at this time of the year. A little economy wouldn’t hurt him.” Dora, the maid, and Mrs. A., the nurse, and Miss C., the governess, came in for really brilliant compliments. Lord Scorp was told that an old English castle or a Rembrandt would be most suitable, but that Santa was all out at present, and if he would just be a little more cheerful in the future he might manage to get him one. T. McT. was given books, as very fitting, and in a trice the place was literally littered with wonders. There were immense baskets and boxes of candied fruit from Holland; toys, books and fruit from Barfleur’s mother in Rome; more toys and useful presents from ladies in London and the north of England and France and the Isle of Wight,--a goodly company of mementos. It’s something to be an attractive widower! I never saw children more handsomely or bountifully provided for--a new saddle, bridle and whip for Berenice’s riding pony, curious puzzles, German mechanical toys from Berlin, and certain ornamental articles of dress seemed, by the astonishing bursts of excitement they provoked, exceedingly welcome. Santa now drew off his whiskers and cap to reveal himself as Gerard Barfleur, and we all literally got down on the floor to play with the children. You can imagine, with each particular present to examine, how much there was to do. Tea-time came and went unnoticed, a stated occasion in England. Supper, a meal not offered except on Christmas, was spread about eight o’clock. About nine an automobile took Lord Scorp and T. McT. away, and after that we all returned to the nursery until about ten-thirty when even by the most liberal interpretation of holiday license it was bedtime. We soberer elders (I hope no one sets up a loud guffaw) adjourned to the drawing-room for nuts and wine, and finally, as the beloved Pepys was accustomed to remark, “So to bed.” But what with the abbey church, the discourse on Christian Science, our lady of the donkey, a very full stomach and a phantasmagoria of toys spinning before my eyes, I went to bed thinking of,--well now, what do you suppose I went to bed thinking of? CHAPTER XVII SMOKY ENGLAND