Without offering her hand, far less with any suggestion of a more emotional farewell, Amy Ledstone drifted towards the door. This time Winnie did not escort or follow her guest. She stood still, watching her departure. She really did not know what to say to her; Amy's attitude was so balanced--or rather not balanced, but confused. Yet just before the guest disappeared, she found herself calling out: "I am grateful, you know. Because thinking as you do about me----" Amy turned her head for a moment. "Yes, but I don't know that you'll come worst out of it, after all," she said. Then Winnie was left alone, to wait for Godfrey--and to see whether he would make mention of Mabel Thurseley's name, that entirely new and formidably significant phenomenon. CHAPTER XII CHRISTMAS IN WOBURN SQUARE When holiday seasons approach, people of ample means ask: "Where shall we go?"; people of narrow: "Can we go anywhere?" The imminence of Christmas made Winnie realize this difference (no question now, as in days gone by, of Palestine and Damascus); but the edge of it was turned by a cordial invitation to spend Friday till Tuesday (Saturday was Christmas Day) at Shaylor's Patch. Her eyes brightened; her old refuge again looked peaceful and comforting. She joyfully laid the proposal before Godfrey. He was less delighted; he looked rather vexed, even a little sheepish. "They do jaw so," he objected. "Arguing about everything night and day! It bores a chap." "You weren't bored when you were there in the summer." "Oh, well, that was different. And I'm afraid mother will be disappointed." "About the Sunday, you mean? Mightn't you run up for the day?" He laid his hand on her shoulder. "I say, I leave it to you, Winnie. I leave it absolutely to you--but mother's set her heart on my spending Christmas with them. I've never missed a Christmas all my life, and--well, she's not very well, and has a fancy about it, you see." "Do it, of course, Godfrey. And come down to me on Sunday." Winnie was now determined that Woburn Square should have no grievances, except the great, inevitable, insuperable one. "You are a good sort, Winnie." He kissed her cheek. "But I don't know how you'll shift for yourself here!" "Oh, I'll put up in Woburn Square for a couple of nights, and do a theatre on Friday perhaps." So it was settled, with some embarrassment on Godfrey's part, with a faint smile on Winnie's. He would have two nights and a whole day at Woburn Square; and he had never mentioned Mabel Thurseley's name, not even though Winnie had made openings for him, had tried some delicate "pumping." And with whom did he think of "doing a theatre" on Friday night?