“Your mother sent me to find you. Is anything wrong? Aren’t you well?” The impossibility of putting her grievance, her torture, so real the moment before, into words confronted her. “I’m quite all right.” And then, irrepressibly: “Only I don’t see why they should act so ribald on Christmas eve.” Dick’s face grew hard; a new disagreeable little glint was in his eyes. “I really can’t see what has come over you, Cecily--why you object to every bit of fun you see around you. You want to run things your own way absolutely--allow no one else to enjoy things that you won’t or can’t enjoy. I don’t think you’re a good hostess or a sport, sulking off up here by yourself.” He went out and left her fairly stricken with horror, wanting to call him back, wanting to scream, cry, wake up--do anything to undo the fact that he had spoken to her like that on Christmas eve, that the glamour of the day before had been torn across already. Instincts of control struggled for the mastery of her hysteria. And control won. Over her knowledge that the sacredness of Christmas, the sacredness of love was stained and hurt irrevocably, with the memory of that cruel light in Dick’s eyes making her almost dizzy, suddenly aware that Dick was not carelessly disregarding her wishes, but deliberately doing so--she went downstairs. It was very trivial, yet nothing could ever hurt Cecily quite as much again. She would never be quite so unprotected again. In those few moments she had learned the art of concealing pain and going on with things. Dick thought she was fine. His little fit of anger had spent itself and he was sorry, and genuinely glad that Cecily had come to herself. Inwardly he put it down to the old excuse that she was “tired” and then forgot. For they were all very gay, gayer than ever now that Cecily had really joined in. In the dancing the Christmas tree fell a little awry and had to be propped up with a chair. It struck midnight. Christmas had come in, unheralded. Matthew spoke, suddenly grave: “We’re going now, Fliss. This is Christmas, and it’s a holy-day with lots of people. Come.” They all said good night and Dick and Cecily were left alone in the disordered room. Some sense of Cecily’s grievance must have come to Dick as he looked about. “Come to bed, dear. We’ll straighten this mess up in the morning.” “In a minute. You go on.” He went up and she moved about, arranging and ordering, her brows knit. When she had finished it did not look so different from the way it had looked early in the evening. But she regarded it without emotion. She was doing this for the children and for their self-respect--not for joy. Then she turned out the lights and the room was soft in the light of the dying fire. The tinsel on the tree sparkled. She went upstairs.