I then passed hastily on to other things: the puddings, for instance, which took complete possession of my kitchen for a time. I do not think they became as personal to Ruth as to me. For my taste they were made too much of; they and the mince-pies crowded out the place and I was thankful to get rid of them. Long before Christmas I looked forward to the day when they all would be dead--“Arthur, Henry, Claud, Stanley, Gordon, Livingstone, Howard, Percy, George, Gerald, Trafford, and Herbert,” I counted along the shelf, “and all the little Thompsons. Arthur and Henry we shall want for ourselves and the kitchen on Christmas Day, you might give Claud to Mrs. Muff, and let Mullins have Stanley. Gordon and Livingstone are smaller and will do for New Year’s Day, so that leaves six to kill before Easter----” I caught sight of Ruth’s face, pale and agitated. “I am so sorry,” I apologised. “You know they seem almost like children, we have taken such an interest in them.” “Would you care for a cup of tea, m’m?” Ruth asked anxiously. “By and by,” I said. “I don’t really care very much for food just now. What about the turkey?” “Well, m’m,” said Ruth, “a good-sized one that would stuff nicely ought to do us over Boxing Day, with a bit of beef, and there will be all the sausages.” I already began to feel fat and over-fed; what with Claud and the others, and my enemy the beef with all his sausages, besides the stuffing, all arriving to lunch on the same day. It was like a lot of fat people driving over for tea and to spend the afternoon; a thing I have always detested. “Ruth,” I pleaded, “you don’t think we might tell the tradespeople that of course one makes allowances at Christmas when every one is busy, so I should not be too exacting if one or two things--the sausages for instance--never came?” “Oh, no, m’m,” she said proudly, “they’d never disappoint us at Christmas!”