"To be sure it does. You have to look straight upward, of course, if you want to see heaven, you know. And speaking of the airshaft, I am reminded that it is really quite a picturesque one at times. The windows across the way are sometimes very interesting, provided the shades are up. Usually, however, when the shades over yonder are up, I see to it that ours are down." "May I fill your glass again, sir?" "Is it empty?" "Quite, sir." "If you don't mind, Diggs, I think I shall save the rest of the wine until after the children have gone," said Mr. Bingle, slowly. Diggs reflected. "Very good, sir. A splendid idea, sir." "And then I shall ask you and Watson and Melissa and Mrs. Watson to drink with me to Mrs. Bingle." "Thank you, sir." "It does my heart good to see the way these young rascals eat, Diggs. They haven't had a dinner like this in a long time. Have a little more chicken, Wilberforce--and some Brussels sprouts. And how about you, Rutherford? Anything more?" "I'll have some more soup, daddy," said Rutherford from his high chair. He was just ending the third course. "Bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle. Melissa had come in to see that everything was going along in proper order. She looked hard at Mr. Bingle's plate and then at the gentleman himself. He met her reproachful gaze with one of mild apology. "I'm saving my appetite for to-morrow, Melissa," he explained. "You're not eating a thing," said Melissa sternly. "Mr. Diggs, what kind of a lummix are you? Can't you see that he's stinting himself so's them--" "Now, Melissa," implored Mr. Bingle, "don't say anything on Christmas Eve that you'll be sorry for afterwards. It's all right, I assure you. I'm not very hungry and--" "But there's more than enough to go 'round," burst out Melissa wrathfully. "There's no sense in your acting like this, Mr. Bingle." "Sh!" "Watson, give him some more of that chicken--the white meat, do you understand? And where's the dressing? Mr. Diggs, get those rolls over here--lively! Did he have any soup and fish? Did he--" "Melissa, what are you trying to do?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "Stuff me so full I'll die in the night?" "And him lookin' that thin and pale and peaked," went on Melissa, glaring at the unhappy butler and footman. "What have you got them buttons and that striped vest for, Watson? Are you here as a spectator? Get a move on now, both of you. And as for you, Mr. Bingle, I'm going to stand right here and SEE that you eat. Do you suppose I got up this meal for a joke on myself? Not much! The mashed potatoes, Watson! Never mind, Freddy, you can have some more after your daddy's had all he wants. Gee whiz, I'm glad I happened to come in when I did!" Presently the door-bell rang--a feeble, broken tinkle reminiscent of an original economy--and Mr. Bingle laid down his salad fork with a sigh. The children started violently and a scared, uneasy look went around the table.