"The Society's agents," said Mr. Bingle, closing his lips tightly to prevent their trembling. "Freddy, will you please go to the door?" "Beg pardon, sir," said Watson, almost reproachfully despite his lordly air. Then, with stately tread, he passed into the little hallway and threw open the outer door. "I don't want to go," Henrietta was crying, and even Frederic looked intently at his plate with eyes that were preparing to fill. The rest of them were ready to whimper. After all, a bountiful meal and a full stomach go a long way toward producing a reaction. They were not so keen to leave Mr. Bingle as they were before the meal began. "Mrs. Flanders! Mr. Flanders!" announced the high-chinned Watson. First of all, the new arrivals paused to stare in astonishment at the liveried footman, and then for an instant at the imperious Diggs, after which they turned their gaze upon the table. "Great Scott!" gasped Flanders. "Is this a dream?" "Not on your life," said Watson, completely forgetting himself in an ecstasy of delight. There was a tremendous hub-bub, during which Diggs and Watson had a great deal of difficulty in keeping their places as old and well-trained servants. They were frequently on the verge of becoming prosperous green-grocers and joining in the jollification. First, the gorgeous Miss Colgate kissed Mr. Bingle, almost smothering the poor gentleman in the wealth of furs which enveloped and adorned her. Then she kissed nine smart little cheeks in rapid succession, all the while crying "Merry Christmas" and "bless your heart," in chorus with every one else and her cheery-voiced husband. "Just had to run down, Mr. Bingle," Flanders was shouting as he pumped the little man's arm violently up and down. "A year ago to-night it all happened, you remember. Celebrating the greatest of all anniversaries. How are you? Couldn't let THIS night go by without seeing you, sir--couldn't possibly. Can't stay but a minute, though. Due at the theatre at half-past seven. Amy goes on early in the first, you know--of course, you know, having ordered her on when I had her entering when the act was half over. How are you?" "Fine! Fine!" gasped Mr. Bingle, almost speechless. "And now," cried Amy Colgate, throwing open her fur coat, revealing a dazzling gown of black and silver, "now for the fun! Mr. Footman, will you admit the messengers from Humpty Dumpty land?" In came four sprightly clowns, chalked and patched, clad in spots and spangles, dancing like mad and grinning from ear to ear. Whirling around the table, dodging the stove, vaulting the empty chairs, they stopped at last to deposit in a heap upon the floor a whopping pile of parcels and bundles, the topmost being a huge box of American Beauty roses. Almost before the wide-eyed, gaping youngsters could realise what had happened, the motley quartette vanished into the outer hall, the door banged to behind them and Mr. Flanders was shouting: