"I see," said Flanders, smiling down into Mrs. Bingle's embarrassed eyes. "Lapsus linguae, Mrs. Bingle." "My French is very--" began Mrs. Bingle plaintively. "Do you like Santa Claus, Reginald?" interrupted Flanders. "I like him better'n I do Dickens," confessed Reginald with considerable positiveness. "Say, what's your name?" "My name is Dick." "Gee! Deadwood Dick, the road-agent? The feller Melissa is always telling us about? Hey, kids, here's--" "Sh!" hissed Flanders, clapping his hand over Master Reginald's mouth. "Never mind that!" "Did I understand Mr. Bingle to say, Mr. Flinders, that you report for the Banner?" It was Mrs. Force who spoke. She was inspecting the young man through a bejewelled lorgnette, held at an angle which was meant to establish beyond dispute the fact that she was looking down upon him from a superior height. She was a tall woman and she had been married to Mr. Force for twelve long years. Looking down on him had become such a habit that it was quite impossible for her to look up to any one of his sex. "Yes, Mrs. Force, the Banner." "Can you tell me who put that disgusting item in the paper about my little gathering last week?" She regarded him with severity. "Gathering? Oh, I daresay it was one of the hospital reporters, Mrs. Force," said Flanders suavely. She spent the rest of the evening in cogitation. Three words describe Mrs. Force. She detested children. Joe, the coachman, and Watson were waiting for an opportunity to speak to Mr. Bingle. They appeared to be crowding each other. "I beg pardon, Mr. Bingle," began Joe, hurriedly, as the master turned in response to Watson's cough. "What is it, Joseph?" Watson succeeded in speaking first. "If you please, sir, my grandmother is dying in the city. I've just been sent for, sir. I think it is possible for me to catch the eight-forty--" "I beg pardon, sir," broke in Joe. "I've just heard that my sister is expecting a baby to-night, and I thought I'd speak to you about getting off--" "Just a moment," said Mr. Bingle, blinking rapidly. "Wasn't your grandmother dying last Christmas Eve, Watson?" "No, sir. It was Hughes's grandmother." "Did she die?" "She did, sir," said Watson, with a pleased smile. "Hughes can attend to my--" "And your sister, Joe: didn't you get off last month for three days to attend her wedding? Your only sister, I think you said." "Yes, sir. Poor girl," said the coachman, without shame or conscience. Mr. Bingle looked hard at the two men. They coloured. "Very well. You may go, both of you, but don't let it happen again. I am sorry that you will not be here to receive your Christmas presents. I shall distribute the envelopes to-night. By the way, the grandmother season ends about the middle of October, Watson. Good night, and--a Merry Christmas to both of you."