The dancing went on gaily until half past eleven o'clock, when the concoction of the Christmas eggnog began. Every gentleman was supplied with a silver fork and a plate in which had been broken the whites of four eggs. They had to be beaten so stiff that the plate could be held over the head of a lady without dropping upon her. Such was the tradition, but only a few ladies took the risk, holding out, meanwhile, their dainty handkerchiefs over their heads to catch the whipped-up whites in case they fell. Betty was one of the venturesome ones, and Fortescue was her cavalier, and turned the plate over her head, but not a drop fell upon Betty's outspread lace handkerchief. Then the whites of the eggs were mixed with the beaten up yolks and the whipped cream and the "stiffening" as Major Lindsay called it, who, as host, did the mixing, and then ladled out the foaming eggnog. At twelve o'clock exactly Major Lindsay held up his glass and shouted, "Merry Christmas!" and a great chorus went up of "Merry Christmas! Merry, merry Christmas!" Then, Isaac Minkins, with a magnificent flourish of his bow, burst forth into the strains of "The Flowing Bowl." All joined in the great Christmas song, Major Lindsay's big baritone leading the chorus: "For to-night we'll merry, merry be, For to-night we'll merry, merry be, For to-night we'll merry, merry be, And to-morrow we'll be sober." Then the gentlemen roared out: "Here's to the man who drinks good ale and goes to bed quite mellow. He lives as he ought to live, and dies a damned good fellow. He lives as he ought to live, He lives as he ought to live, He lives as he ought to live, And dies a damned good fellow. "Here's to the man who drinks no ale and goes to bed quite sober. He withers as the leaves do, and dies in the month of October. He withers as the leaves do. He withers as the leaves do. He withers as the leaves do. And dies in the month of October." Then came the verse in which all the ladies joined with great enthusiasm: "Here's to the girl who gets a kiss, and runs and tells her mother. May she live to be an old maid, and never get another!" The chorus pealed out, Betty Beverley's clear and ringing soprano above all the rest: "May she live to be an old maid, May she live to be an old maid, May she live to be an old maid, And never get another."